A Templar Beoulve
by Nameless Knight
Summary: Ziekden Fortress burned and Ramza Beoulve's ideals burned with it. But the ashes fall on a new path, one of the Gods. (Now with Ramza/Ovelia.)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _Sword in hand, a warrior clutches stone to breast_

 _In sword etched he his fading memories_

 _In stone, his tempered skill_

 _By stone attested, by stone revealed_

 _Their tale can now be told._

 _I am Arazlam, scholar of Ivalice's Darkest Age. You are familiar with the Age of Strife, yes?_

 _It was a bitter succession of wars that drove Ivalice to ruin. The Fifty Years' War laid the foundations for Ivalice's collapse. The War of the Lions rent Ivalice in twain. The Succession Wars that in turn led to the Twenty Years' War._

 _It was a time that begat the greatest heroes._

 _A time of untold victims._

 _Much was lost to the flames of war. Generations of knowledge taken in blazes as cities burned._

 _What little remained, safeguarded by the Church's Knights Hospitaller, was kept secreted in the vaults of Mullonde. History spread only by mouth and recount—twisted each tell beyond all recognition._

 _No one knows who is the victim, and who is the aggressor. Everyone is a hero, and a villain._

 _Beoulve. Heiral. Tengille. Orlandeau. Atkascha._

 _These are but a few of the names associated with our history. Shrouded by myth and unmeant lies._

 _However, the recently unveiled Duroi Papers tell an unimaginable truth of their own. A set of documents said to be penned during the Age of Strife, they were released from the Church's archives this past year._

 _Why have these papers laid dormant all these years, if they are but the truest account of the Age of Strife?_

 _Join me in my search to uncover the answer._

* * *

"O Father, abandon not Your wayward children of Ivalice, but deliver us from our sins, that we might know salvation."

Thunder broke princess's prayer as the rainstorm assailing the Orbonne Monastery continued. Rain pattered against the stained-glass windows of the hall, consuming all light not set by candles.

"Lady Ovelia, is is time."

The princess kept to her knee, facing the altar inside the hall they shared. "I'll not be much longer, Agrias."

Every moment they lingered within the monastery's halls drew her enemies ever closer. "Your Highness, we are beholden to naught but your wishes, but I beseech of you, hurry." Four Lionsguards to protect the Princess was a hundred too few. A year after His Majesty's passing and only now did Duke Larg elect to transfer the Princess to Eagrose. All without a proper escort of Northern Sky knights. The princess's security was in grave danger; she would not be safe from Duke Goltanna's clutches 'til she arrived in Eagrose.

"Please," the elderly priest, Simon Penn-Lachish, stepped forward, "heed the good lady's words, Your Highness."

Her Highness, Princess Ovelia Atkascha, rose from her prayer. She faced those who urged her to haste. "Very well." She walked towards the priest; the two took hands. "The High Father watch over you, Elder."

"And over you, child. By the grace of the Gods will you arrive safe in Eagrose."

Lionsguard mythril would make certain of it.

Agrias retrieved the traveling cloak nearby the monastery's doors. It was all she could offer Her Highness to ward off the elements. Her scarlet cloak inscribed with golden insignia of the royal family, her pure-white dress, her honey-blonde hair tied in two braids would all be stained soon enough. They had no carriage, no set of chocobos to ride. Her dress would be covered in mud before they reached Dortor alone.

The doors burst inside—nearly striking Agrias—only for a Lionsguard knight to collapse into her arms! "Annebelle!" said Agrias. Her cape was soaked with blood and rain as both fell from open wounds with no stopper.

"Milady," the young knight gasped, "The Black Lion..."

The Southern Sky was upon them so soon? "Elder Simon, please look after her!" Agrias said before wrapping her fallen knight in the cloak.

"I shall retrieve our best white mages at once!"

Agrias lowered her woman and rushed to meet the threat. In rain-studded darkness, five figures stood at arms near the end of the road leading to the monastery's doors. Alicia to her left; Lavian to her right. Thunder illuminated her foemen's face. A fat-cheeked, dark-haired man bearing a patchwork of scars on his face. A knight bearing the crest of the Black Lion across his badge. Likewise his companions, three archers—arrows notched, and a chemist.

"Duke Goltanna must be mad!" shouted Agrias as she drew her sword. "Do you mean to start a war?"

"End one, though I believe such subtleties beyond you wench. Bring the princess forth and naught shall mar that pretty face of yours."

Insolent curs! None among them were the equal of a Lionsguard, but they near twice the numbers with a chemist's support. This would not be an easy battle, and lest of all no retreat could be enacted.

"Alician, Lavian, to my side, shields high," she ordered her knights. If they could but group the Southern Sky together...

The Lionsguard complied, the three women forming a poor makeshift of a shield wall in protection of the monastery's doors.

Southern Sky archers took their own orders, forming a line at the road's end. If the Lionsguard advanced, the archers would flee and strike. If any magicks were incanted, they would focus their attacks. It was a simple and functional plan that took advantage of their strengths and the enemies' weakness.

Their arrows soared through air—difficult to follow in rain's kiss, but also easier to nullify. One went wholly off course, another sunk low and the third bounced off Lavian's shield. Before the bounced arrow sank to ground, another volley had been sent.

And then another.

By fifth sent they had narrowly avoided drawing blood. A few nicked air or arm, but no wounds serious.

This rain was sent by the Gods for true.

As they loosed their latest volley, Agrias burst forward—they panicked! Dropping arrow and formation from surprise. It did not last long.

But long enough.

Her sword swung through air.

The magick of Judgement Blade fell upon them.

It resembled ice that fell from heavens, chunks of nigh-transparent blue larger than a man that struck three. But there was no lingering chill nor frost upon metal. A physical manifestation that struck as firm as any sword.

Unprepared to face a Holy Knight, the Southern Sky had banded together. The prefect target for her arts.

She claimed all three archers with the blow. One fallen on his face the instant he could, another stopped frozen by divine favor, and the last to his knees.

"Advance!" Agrias shouted as she led her knights forward to an even fight.

The Black Lion knight moved forward to protect his comrades as the chemist applied potion to wounded archer.

Agrias met blade with the leader, his arrogance replaced by impudence. "Damn wench!" he shouted. All the bluster he jeered with well and gone. "This would have been so much the easier if you'd simply stood aside." Their swords sought opening while battle continued around them.

Alicia took arrow to knee as she advanced but bore through it to strike in melee. The archer hastily drew a dagger and he defended himself with the chemist. The two were clumsy and unskilled compared to Lionsguard, but desperation bore a strength all its own. When she ran through the archer, his last laugh was sinking dagger into her shoulder. The chemist took advantage, tackling the man on top of her before taking flight towards, red-feather phoenix down in hand.

Agrias could distract no more however, as the knight attempted to sneak around her guard. A deflection from edged steel to the blunt of shield, he tipped sword low to break under her guard.

She simply fell back, watching the sword rend nothing in air.

She watched, as Lavian came 'round and struck blow to his back, breaking his stance and forcing him forward.

Agrias pushed the advantage, thrusting towards his chest. The knight moved sword to defend, sending the deathblow to his left shoulder. He dropped his shield, that clattered to the wet stone. Agrias pushed him away with hers.

His left was crimson, and his back was exposed.

But Lavian could not support as—with arrow now protruding from her back—she was in melee with two archers and a bleeding chemist. Alicia struggled still with her foeman laid atop, but the angle she'd fallen was awkward on stone step and lacking one arm working she couldn't.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" The Southern Sky knight swore above the thunder. He raised his sword to the sky and charged like a fool.

What would one expect from charging Lionsguard from the front?

His blow was easy to read, if heavy, and Agrias received it with her shield. He brought arm back and rained blow after blow, each less in strength as red life escaped him.

Fifth swing back—she struck. Scarlet staining her sword from man's stomach.

Whatever ferocity remained, still pushed him forward.

But she simply pushed back, leaving him to rot. Blood sipping away, bloodfall down step.

Lavian had stricken an archer down for true, but the reddened cape she now bore slowed her. Such amateurs were pressing her harshly now.

Not for long.

Calling again upon the Judgement Blade, the strikes of ice ended the last of the threat in one breath.

The miserable day was theirs.

"Unhand me!"

Her voice cut clear through all the thunder—would through the earth's movements, the Gods' wrath.

Her voice came from the monastery's second entrance, a side-door to the rightside of the main. To a balcony around the rear.

"The Princess!" shouted Agrias, rushing back without concern for her knights.

A man's voice, loud enough to hear as well, helmet-clad echo, somewhat young, another kidnapper. "My end is upheld, so lest Atkascha word of honor dies with you, 'tis your words that we now follow."

Agrias cursed herself the fool for ever letting the Princess out of sight. The frontal attack was the diversion.

Inside monastery Annabelle lay eyes closed, wounds already mended. Agrias leapt to the side door below. Back to rain, wooden paths and misery.

Around back, the Princess was forced unto chocobo—one of two. A knight bearing no colors but the black of his armor hoisted her above, and a mounted man with Black Lion standard on cape. Face and brown hair bare to rain. The Princess struggled upon sight, but could not match the knight holding her. "Agrias!"

"Unhand her you curs!" Agrias shouted, sword in hand.

"We hold to agreement, Her Highness and I," said the knight in black. "Less you treat your mistress's words as irrelevant, tend to your wounded."

"Agreement? Threat by sword's point is no agreement!" Would she not catch Princess with Judgement Blade... She edged ever closer to a strike...

"'Twould seem the Lady Knight agrees with me," the Black Lion knight said. "Should simply have taken her unawares and made to sleep a spell."

"What matters is it is done." The black knight slid into saddle behind the still-struggling Princess. "We ride!"

Agrias moved.

'Twas naught she could do before chocobo's speed.

The kidnappers fled into the distance, across river, far beyond her reach.

Naught she could do as the Princess cried for her.

All she could do, was strike the ground. "How could this be..."


	2. Chapter 1: Fire of the Gods

**Chapter 1: Fire of the Gods**

The heat of combat and flame were soon cut apart by chill and snow as the rest of the company dragged him from the Fort. He struggled as they saved his life from dashing back into the flames that had surely already claimed the lives of his best friend and best friend's sister. Another explosion deafened all as the last tower of Ziekden Fortress was lost. A defiant act of those inside.

This was death. Of Delita Heiral and his sister Tietra.

This was the death of the Corpse Brigade and the last peasant resistance to the Order of the Northern Sky.

This was the death of Ramza Beoulve's world. Ideals shattered and broken by seven words: " _This changes nothing, Argath. Loose your attack!_ " Spoken by Lord Brother Zalbaag as he ordered Tietra slain. All in the name of convenience.

So quickly did the band descend upon her murderer that some faint hope remained in all hearts to resuscitate her. Phoenix Downs and Raise spells were in hand, on lip, before the last body of the Northern Sky stained the snow. Traitors they all were, and none cared.

Delita marched to the bridge above to recover his sister—all too quickly was he consumed by the suicidal strike of the Corpse Brigade members trapped within.

Comrades stopped him from rushing back, and stopped even now as he bloodied noses and bruised limbs but they held tight. Tight until the white of snow crushed the black and red beneath its expanse.

Tears were never this cold.

Without direction, without purpose. When his struggles ceased, the wandering began. To? Who could say. Who could say this was where any of their lives should have gone?

But they drifted home.

Not to Eagrose, where execution surely awaited. And though his mind briefly flirted with being reunited with Delita and Tietra in a land where people were truly equal... melancholy and sense sent them elsewhere.

Home was Gariland. The Royal Military Akademy where the band came together. Aldebrand Stone, always first to a fight, yet no blade ever seemed to touch him. Taylor Fulke, as loyal a friend, and true a knight, as the Lionsguard. Gylda Chaldi and her infectious optimism that melded well with her healing talents. Margarete Darlavon, daughter of the most boring instructor in the Akademy and eager to mark her own way out of his shadow. Deitrich Diver and Pelinne Perrine, who so quickly began a courtship once they were no longer students, all due to his profession as a Chemist.

But before them all, was Delita Heiral. Calm, composed, willing to listen and knowledgeable with a sword-arm to back it all up, should it come to that. Despite being dark-haired surrounded by the fair-hairs of Ivalician nobility, he made friends plenty among the other cadets. He was the true architect of the band. Though he would never give himself the credit.

Delita always pushed credit towards him. Ramza Beoulve. Illegitimate son of the greatest hero of the Fifty Years' War: Barbaneth Beoulve. The name alone earned praise, respect and admiration, half-common blood or no. Though Lord Father took Ramza and true-blood sister Alma as official children shortly before his deathbed, there was always a shadow of displeasure in noble eyes as they stared at them.

But the other cadets saw beyond such trappings as they did with Delita. True, Beoulve was always its own "crown" in the Akademy. But to them, he was Ramza first, Barbaneth Beoulve's son second.

Home. Home was uproarious against the dour mood of the band. The Corpse Brigade that had plagued the Order of the Northern Sky for months was finally destroyed. The peasants no longer need fear the brutes and bandits; the nobility no longer need worry their fattening foods would be confiscated. Everyone was glad to be rid of them.

And all the Corpse Brigade wished was to be paid for services rendered in the Fifty Years' War. But the crown was too busy paying reparations in the surrender. Paying true knights, banks, traders, other countries. It didn't have the money to pay these commons. In opposite, they extorted higher taxes than ever before.

But the Corpse Brigade did not lay down their weapons just yet. They took them back before they could rust and demanded change.

There was no change except for the number of graves filled. And unfilled.

Sleep came all-too-easy after a forced march home. All dreams—nightmares of the above coming and going forever. Sprinkles of hope—Tietra living, Zalbaag staying his order, the Corpse Brigade surrendering... all made it worse. All the branches fate could have followed and the one with the most dead was chosen.

There were no cheers when he awoke past the moon's midnight. The others still slept, but the exuberance that would be expected for weeks had died.

Asking why, he learned. The King was dead.

Wiegraf Folles, leader of the Corpse Brigade, predicted this when Ramza skirmished with him at the Fovoham Windflats east of the Ziekden Fortress. The Dukes Larg (Ramza's liege at the time) and Goltanna would vie for regency of the infant Prince Orinus.

Small wonder now, in retrospect, why Lord Brother Zalbaag would act so recklessly. If the Corpse Brigade persisted at such a key moment, Duke Goltanna could twist it to his advantage. If the White Lion Larg could not keep peasants down, how could he keep the King up?

Tietra was killed for the power of nobles who knew not her name.

Disgusting.

Cadets, locals and those from away were swept into a nightly mourning. Ramza joined them, of a sorts. Drifting from meeting to meeting as the moon crossed through the sky. One such progression was to a Church.

He was one among many who offered clasped hands in prayer for the King, but the sole for the commons dead and friends unmourned but by seven.

New year not yet month old and yet King dead and Corpse Brigade fell. History clear to remember former.

He was then the last; alone in the church save a few clergy keeping vigil. They readied the Church in preparation for the dawn. For when the whole of the city learned of the King's passing, every Church in every city would be filled to capacity.

Would he be among them, then? Where else could he go? Where else? There was no place to turn, no place he wanted to turn.

And yet...

How blind he was. One could always turn to the Gods.

There was a confessional adjacent. An older-looking priest serving outside. Brown-hair yielding to the grays of age.

Ramza approached, "I seek to confess my sins," he said. _Or perhaps the sins of my brothers._

"Go," was the raspy rough terse reply in a voice ill-befitting the clergy.

Still, Ramza stepped inside, took his seat upon one of the most sacred positions in the Church of Glabados. Dark, and cramped, Ramza kept the divider closed. "Forgive me Father for I have sinned."

"Usually, it is I who greet first." the Father replied, a different voice from the man outside. Warm, pleasant, with a hint of mirth regardless.

"I suppose, preempting a Priest is a sin I have need to confess as well."

The Father chuckled. Certainly he was an unorthodox priest. "Then tell me, my son, what other sins have you come to confess?"

"I have not the number nor exactitude, I shall recall only what I can."

"As we all."

And he recounted. Every life ended. Every insult hurled. The betrayal of Liege and Oath and Blood. Irrelevant childish fancies and young follies of boyhood. Days of piety missed. Faking a prayer for the King.

"Your life has been difficult indeed, my son," the Father solemnly answered. "At so young an age to face such tribulations. You are wise indeed to seek the forgiveness of the Gods."

"Is it forgiveness I seek? Or answer that what I did was right?"

"My son, it is for the Gods to decide what is right, and what is wrong. We live our lives to the best of our abilities and judgements in accordance with their decrees. All sin, myself included. But you would not be here if you did not truly believe there was some wrong in your actions."

Ramza could not fault that thinking.

"Nevertheless, it is the teachings of Saint Ajora that those who seek redemption be granted their chance."

"The Corpse Brigade? Kinslayers?"

"Would Wiegraf Folles come here, I would give him my absolution."

"Were the world kind enough for such a thing." Not this disgusting one.

"If it was in your power, would you?"

He could not help raise a brow at such a question. "A peculiar question for a priest."

"I have a most peculiar guest."

A world where no Tietras need die? Where a Corpse Brigade received their coin? Where no nobles bickered over a title while people starved?

"I... I know not..." Ramza bitterly answered. "It is a world to pray for, for certain, but a traitor such as myself has naught the power or fortitude to do so."

"Pray to the Gods, my son. Pray to Saint Ajora, that one day, the world has no need of Knights."

"You would ask me to lay down my sword?"

"I ask of you, what happiness has it brought you?"

Ramza bit his lip. All the memories of the Akademy blurred by the snow of Ziekden.

"Silence is answer enough."

It was, wasn't it? "Perhaps my answer lies not with a bloody blade, but where then?"

"I think it clear enough around you."

"The Church?" Ramza gasped at the suggestion. Lord Brother Zalbaag was a Knight Devote, true; and Lord Father bore the title Knight Gallant. But Ramza's thoughts had never run so deeply religious...

But thoughts once had Delita and Tietra at his side.

To be free of a Knight's Duty, the fear of his Lord Brothers hunting him. Was it possible to embrace the Gods?

No.

"I cannot say such a life would be displeasing," Ramza answered. "But I do not believe it for myself."

"What then, my son, do you believe? That your sword would save more lives than a Priest's magicks?"

"I..." Ramza paused to consider his answer. "I believe both can be used."

"Oh?" a ping of genuine surprise from the otherwise calm confessor.

"To not adapt on the battlefield is dangerous. When an ally who specialized in recovery once fell, gravely injured, and she was too apart from our Chemists, it was only the second-hand training of my friend Delita that saved her life. If he had not, she would have perished."

 _Gylda moved so swiftly to save Tietra as Delita had saved her..._

The Priest murmured in approval. "The only thing simple in this life, is the Gods love for us." There was a ruffle of robes from the other side of the confessional. "My son, if you would permit me, I would endeavor to speak face-to-face."

That was highly unusual. "I think it not a good idea," Ramza replied. "For your safety Father, I assure you."

This earned another chuckle from the man. "I would not invite you if I worried for my health my son. And come now, I assure you the sanctity of the confessional will remain outside it."

He was going to regret this. "If you are certain of this Father..."

"Very much so," he replied. Shortly after, Ramza heard the other door open and the Beoulve followed suit.

He fell to his knees immediately.

He thought Ziekden Fortress crushed any possibility for surprise in his mind.

He was wrong.

There was but one person left alive that any man, woman or child across Ivalice (and some even beyond) would recognize.

High Confessor Marcel Funebris. The Voice of the Gods on Ivalice. Head of the Church of Gladbos. The most Holy Man in the country.

"My apologizes, Your Holiness," Ramza quickly fell to station. "I was unaware of whom I was addressing."

"My son, if I stood on ceremony I would not be taking anonymous confessions."

Still, Ramza could not rise.

"Your respect is appreciated, truly. As are your words. It does my heart well to meet a young man of such firm character."

"I humbly accept your praise, Your Holiness."

"Perhaps you could 'humbly' receive an offer?"

"I am but the servant of the gods, Your Holiness."

"That you shall be for sure, if you accept it. I extend to you this privilege: Become a Templar."


	3. Chapter 2: A Path Templar

**Chapter 2: A Path Templar**

"A Templar?" Ramza blurted out. Carelessness gave rise to brows at his direction.

"That boy is no Templar," the grim priest from earlier stated.

'Twas not hard to realize said Priest was a Templar in disguise. The Holy Father would not leave Holy Mullonde without an escort most skilled. How many clergy in this church held mythril under robe?

His Holiness turned gaze to the Templar in robes. "A heart to Gods and his fellow man, little more Templar than that."

"I disagree," the Templar states, staring into Razma's eyes. "He prostrates himself well now, but when reality sets he has shown how deep his loyalty runs."

"You would intrude on the confessional?" His Holiness asked agape of the situation.

"I would intrude on your bedchambers to keep you safe, Your Holiness."

A smile grazed the lips of the Holy Father under his well-groomed beard. "And so should you spare sympathy for a boy doing a wrong in service of a right."

"'Tis not the same and you are well aware of it," the Templar scowled. "So quickly did he abandon oath; how quickly would he abandon the Gods?"

There was no excuse nor answer that reached Razma's lips.

"True did he break from the liege he swore to swerve. But his oath to fellows did he keep true. Tell me," the Holy Father hooked the question at the Templar, "if I were to step from the path of Gods, would you stay your tongue and oath then?"

"Nay, you are held only in judgement by the Gods."

"Such arrogance that leads to Ivalice's situation. Where noble tread upon common like wagon wheel upon street." The Holy Father shook his head. "Not even I am beyond reproach, Folmarv."

Folmarv Tengille. Grand Master of the Knights Templar. Who else could speak so equal with the Holy Father?

"So you would have this boy as an auxiliary should you abandon your ideals?" He gave a bitter laugh at that.

"I intend not to ever leave the Gods service, save when I am called to their side," the Holy Father clarified. "And to abandon a well-meaning youth that the Gods saw fit to introduce to me, would be leaving my path."

"There is naught that would change your mind then, if the Gods have it set." The Grand Master shook his head. "Boy, ready your goodbyes and supplies. We leave by daybreak by port to Mullonde."

So swiftly was his life's future decided by another once again. "My apologies, Your Holiness, Grand Master, but I have not made my decision yet."

"Come to terms or not. We will not hold for you."

"I look forward to your future, my son, regardless of where it takes you."

"Come, Holiness," Folmarv graced a way for the Holy Father.

"There is one last task," the Holy Father took a step forward, and set a hand on Ramza's shoulder. "May you follow the righteous path always, my son. For your penance, say a prayer for the souls of every man you've slain. And one for every one you've saved."

"Thank you, Your Holiness." The weight of sin was lifted from his soul by the most holy man in Ivalice.

The High Confessor gave a most deep nod and Ramza bowed low. Thereafter did the Holy Father leave, escorted by a dozen clergy. So few, but each would be a warrior on par with Lord Brother Zalbaag for sure.

Ramza took a look at the church's alter, attended by one actual priest, before leaving.

Was this to be his path? The Gods saw fit to grace him with the High Confessor's. But the Gods also saw fit to call Delita and Teitra to their side. And what of the company? Barely was Lord Folmarv accepting him, much less a half-dozen others unknown. He could not so easily abandon them as the Northern Sky abandoned Tietra.

The common room of the Inn was still lit, Fulke and Gylda waiting at a table. Upon sight the duo leapt from their chairs. "By the gods Ramza," he said. "We'd thought you run afoul of the authorities."

"My apologies," Ramza offered. "Sleep was... difficult. Impossible after the King's death was added to my mind."

"Aye," Gylda nodded. "But to leave?"

"Caught in the commotions. I... found a Church. Prayed for a safe life for Delita, and Tietra."

"Still should have awaken us then." She shook her head. "The others are out searching. I shall go and retrieve them."

"Aye, thank you Glyda."

"All we have are each other now." She brushed past him and after those words.

No, he could not so easily abandon them. Ramza closed the door and took the seat Glyda had departed.

"Another matter is on your mind." Fulke broke his introspective. "Did you encounter Order Knights?"

"No, someone else..."

"Your brothers?" Fulke gave a look of concern.

"Nay, a Father instead."

"You found religion?" Fulke stroked his chin. "Not the first among us."

"They offered me knighted as Templarate."

Fulke actually laughed at that. "Ramza Beoulve the Templar?"

"Ramza Beoulve the traitor has a better catch to it then."

"Nay but," he furrow his brow, "what of us then, Ramza? Are we to be Templars too?"

Ramza shook his head. "Precisely why I did not accept. I have had enough of Beoulves breaking bonds with others for a lifetime." Not after they took to a search of him in night.

A smile crossed Fulke's lips. "We'll find a way our own then."

Where then? Gallionne would have their heads. Lesalia bore itself too close to the former. Mullonde would not accept them all. Lionel? Templars they may not be, but Gryphons possibly? Zeltennia? Trade one liege-duke for the other. But the Thunder God Cid was truest friend to Lord Father Barbaneth. Limberry? The Marquis Elmdore owed his life to the band's actions. Fovoham and its Grand Duke? Shrouded in too-miserable rumor and unpleasant truths.

"We'll consider our options whence the others return." He alone surely had no answers.

The door broke inwards. Ramza and Fulke jumped to their feet, hands moving to their weapons. Knights of the Order of the Northern Sky rushed in, sword and shield ready. "Ramza Beoulve, under orders of Lord Commander Zalbaag Beoulve you are to be brought to Eagrose for questioning regarding the Ziekden Fortress incident."

Their could be no fouler luck than this! The two of them, against six knights and however more surrounded the establishment. Was being clad in irons the only way out? "What of the rest?" Ramza asked.

"Death. Accept and let it be at least honorable."

Fulke spat on the floor. "Northern honor's worth less than a floor spat upon."

"A floor bloody then." The knights advanced, three in front, two on the flank with the last at the door.

Fulke flipped the table into their lines as the two of them drew their swords. But Fulke flicked his head back, towards the kitchen. Whatever guard remained at a second exit would be less!

Ramza rushed back, shouts and foot-stomps behind, and busted through the door. Fulke grabbed the wooden frame and slammed it back into place, bracing himself against it.

"What are you doing?" Ramza asked.

"You've a way out of this. I don't." The Knights slammed into the door, but Fulke would not budge.

This was not the time. "Acceptance or no you can at least accompany!"

"And the others? Led to trap? Nay, I'll take my chance scaring them away."

"Together then." Ramza moved nearby as swords began to shop through the door and Fulke fell back. The kitchen was small, a well choke-point for two against six.

"We've not a full white mage with us," he pointed out as he tossed anything in hand's reach in front of the door. "Or chemist supplies."

"I'll not watch another friend die!"

"Then leave!" Fulke shouted. "I've no intent of dying here either. Run, and we'll split their attention."

The was broken apart and the first knight wedged himself through. Fulke thrust at him, stopping his advance, for now. "You're the prize here Ramza, not us."

To be the bait then? Very well. "I'll break the path out, hurry after!"

"I'll be sure!" Fulke flung a pot at the knight, diverting the shield towards his head and allowing Fulke to slip a sword strike to his knee. With one leg hurt the knight fell awkwardly and trapped his fellows.

Ramza turned and kicked the exit door aside. A pair of Northern knights stood a few feet into the back alley. The dame on the left, two-handing a mythril sword brought her arms back as she moved in to swing. A frontal assault with little chance of success, but would keep him in position.

He brought his sword up, metal striking metal that drove his arm nearly into his skull. But he had taken it well, and her initial strike lost momentum against his stance. He pushed her sword into the sky, ducked and threw his shoulder into her.

A common squire tactic to get some territory in a fight. Fulke capitalized it and ran past Ramza to continue to assault on the dame. Sword struck sword as two knights clashed leaving Ramza with the ser who now advanced.

This time Ramza moved, meeting the man's shield halfway. The knight shifted the shield aside but Ramza had already recovered and stepped half away from the knight's follow up.

A glance back inside and the other knights were almost through.

They need not defeat these knights. Simply needed to render them ineffective. Eyes to weapon, Ramza scouted for the vulnerability, the crack needed to break... and he found it. Sword raised, the Beoulve swung, striking at an easily missed flaw. Near the tip, just a faint wrongness in the groove but enough of a splinter for the art of war to rend through it and near cleave the blade in twain.

The swordsmen fell back sans weapon with added grim recompose as he weighed options. Likewise did Fulke manage to force his foe defensive and without arms.

It was their chance and the Akademy-mates broke into a run away from the inn in a blink's time before the inner knights came out. The Northern Order pursued, but the weight of their superior equipment slowed them against the scarcely armed youths. The two vanished in the alleys of darkness.

"Ramza," Fulke said. "Hurry. I shall find the others and lead them elsewhere."

"I cannot—"

"I can," Fulke firmly stood. "We'll meet again. Be assured of that."

There was no changing his mind. "Go with the Gods, Taylor Fulke."

"Go to the Gods, Ramza Beoulve."

The two parted ways.


	4. Chapter 3: Holy Voyage

**Chapter 3: Holy Voyage**

The streets were clear of any further Order Knights as Ramza ran their stone paths. A few passing mourners gave curious eyes but he was gone before any true perceptions could form. Even as his body tired from his waking, his fighting, his running, he kept pace as sweat wet his clothes.

In every group he passed, in every open building or rooftop he searched for his mates. But there were none. Any chance to step off this path never shone.

The port of Gariland could hardly be considered the greatest in Ivalice, but as one of the most direct routes to Holy Mullonde, it saw its share of religious figures, pilgrims, hopefuls for the clergy, and hopefuls that Mullonde Holy Men would cure unspeakable ills and wounds of war and chance.

So it was no surprise to see the docks of the city filled with work even before the sun graced the sky.

And then it was that Ramza Beoulve hadn't the first idea of where the ship bearing the High Confessor was. He could not go asking around, pursued by the Order as he was. The Holy Father traveled with Templar without banner; he did not want his presence announced.

Where then should he look? Would the ship be registered? Would its schedule be where all could see? Waiting on concern would avail naught. There were people around to ask, and Ramza approached a gathering of five men to ask, "Excuse me sers, what ships set sail before long?"

The five stared at him as if he'd stabbed one. The largest of them answered, "Ye be daft boy? The schedule's on yer way in."

"Mine eyes must have missed it in the dark." A well enough excuse predawn.

"It's marked by torch-light the second the sun's light leaves." The man vigorously shook his head. "Bah, three ships leave at sun's first." He pointed towards the closest vessel; crates being loaded to its deck. " _The Lowwind_ there will sail past eastern Gallione towards Yardrow in Fovoham."

"I seek travel south." Truth of half at least.

"Then the _Anointed Sails_ three docks east goes to Warjilis in Lionel."

"And the third?"

The man grunts at your question. " _Shadow of Intent_ on the westernmost dock. Good luck going on them. Naught but the ship's crew have gone near that vessel."

Good luck it was then. "I see, thank you for your answers, my good sers. May Saint Ajora bless your path."

"Right, right, right." He waved Razma's concerns off without a care and went back to chatting with his group.

Beoulve took west as the sun rose in the east. The first rays of dawn splashing off the Black Coral Sea, sparkling silver on the horizon. He kicked into a sprint, still weathered by earlier exertions, as he looked into each of the berths.

The clutter of the docks ended so swiftly it gave him pause. But in the distance was the last ship in western port: _Shadow of Intent_. A peculiar name for one hoisting the High Confessor, but such as a way to hide him.

Seven men dressed as sailors stood about the area, half already with their eyes on him and hands ready to draw. Surely this was the High Confessor's vessel.

Ramza held his hands up to mean no threat. "I was..." How to say it... "Invited, by a passenger aboard this vessel."

The closest of the guards glared at him. "By what name do you approach stranger?"

He was not a threat to them just yet. "Ramza, though the sanctity of confessional gave permission to not announce myself as such."

Dawn reached him, and barely lit as he was, Ramza could still see the man scrutinizing him. "Ask," he gave command to another who relied without word.

Silence and sunlight passed and the subtle features of dock and man became clearer. Clearer still when the runner returned and whispered to the ear of the first guard. "Come then," did he say. "And hurry, we've waited long enough for you."

"My apologies."

The guards fell in line, hands still close to their swords, but not so eager to draw. Still, if Ramza tried anything, he knew how swiftly they would draw.

They silently walked up and on-board the ramp and he followed on-board. His first time on ship and it was to Mullonde. How curious and lamentable a turn his life had taken.

Shortly after the ramp was pulled, the ship's sails unfurled and another horde of nautical terms he was ignorant of were called and the ship set to water and the open sea.

"From experience," the voice of the Grand Master called for him and Ramza turned to greet him, "when you wretch, make sure it is not over an open porthole lest you be assigned the crow's nest."

"I, shall keep that in mind."

The Templarate's Grand Master had exchanged his priestly robes for a purple-backed tabard baring the banner of Mullonde and the Church of Glabados. Dour-faced and square-jawed did he remain, with a grim stare and a darker hair fading into age parted midway and swept back as well.

Following, a look around was all to see that the whole crew now bore surcoats the same—save coloring.

"Is the whole ship crewed by the Templarate?" he asked.

"None else can be trusted the High Confessor's safety outside of Mullonde. Not even the Lionsguard."

Ah, the situation came to focus. The High Confessor left to administer the King's funeral. If Wiegraf knew the King's ills, than most certainly the high-most clergy as well.

"Before such talk passes between us," Lord Folmarv said. "Let us exchange names."

Ah! He forgot manners and etiquette so soon. He offered his hand in peace. "Ramza," he paused. And what last name to give? Stay Beoulve or trade as something else? No, he would not run, not from this. "Beoulve."

The Grand Master took hand in his and gave a brief, but firm, shake. "Know you already mine, but I'll repeat all the same. Folmarv Tengille: Grand Master the Knights Templar of Mullode." Rare it was a man who gave so little concern for the Beoulve name. "You are not Templar yet, boy, but you may be forged something useful yet."

"I am not useful?"

"The pause before the name 'Beoulve' was long enough for me to draw and take your head. So nay, until you are resolute you are but untempered iron. Fine iron for certain, but still brittle 'til worked well."

Rarer was it for such blunt criticism to be levied at him either. Lord Brothers aside, Ramza's skills were the talk of all cadets he knew and even a fair few instructors. Wiegraf Folles himself fled before his band and even truesworn Knights of the Northern Sky fell to sword and spell he commanded. Just his escape incapacitated another!

But a far cry it was from either Lord Brother. An intellect and cunning beyond peer with Dycedarg; and the Savior of Ivalice that was Zalbaag. And lord father? A Knight who knew no equal save a man called "Thunder God". He was always humbled by better men.

"You think the same, it looks." A flicker of a smile briefed the Templar's lips. "Good. Too many Knights come to Mullonde thinking their arts peerless. Their heads too full of themselves to learn again. We serve the Gods first and our own ambitions second, boy." Ramza ruffled at the boy comment again. "Too many these days blur where true faith should lie in favor of earthly praise."

All-too-much was this sounding like a lecture from Lord Brother Zalbaag when he returned from Mullonde pilgrimages himself. Such talk softened over time and when Order matters called still... Ramza could not expect any sort of gradual leniency here. These were the Knights Templar, and but a handful outside their order could be considered a martial equal.

"Then I look forward to learning," Ramza said.

The Grand Master scoffed. "Alfredo shall have such lack of sense beaten out of you soon enough."

A chilling response. But he had earned respect of all his sword teachers save his Lord Brothers. Alfredo would do the same, he was sure.

"Cherish that smile you have, boy," Lord Folmarc said. "It'll be your last before you're Templar or corpse."

He was smiling?

Yes, he was. He consciously dropped his lips back down. Though, since the Fortress, it was his first taste of mirth. Even before that, before Eagrose was raided by the Corpse Brigade.

To think it'd be fueled by self-satisfaction. Some Templar he'd make. And where was worry for his comrades, now? Had Fulke found the others and made their escape? Or had he—or they—been captured and now faced the guillotine?

'Twas not too late to take a boat and row return. Gariland had only faded but a few seconds prior.

"Do not lend even a second's thought to returning to Gariland. It is behind you and beyond you now."

"What do you mean?"

"Sweat drips down your brow boy," the Grand Master nodded at him. "What exertion but the Northern Sky finding you and your fellows could draw such effort?"

"I detest abandoning them."

"The Gods abandon no man."

"I am clearly no God, nor man truly for Gods yet."

"Templars must focus on whom we can save."

Far from the news he prayed to hear. But not even Lord Father could save all under sun, lest Ivalice would be free of Corpse Brigade and all troubles. "I shall not tolerate injustice in my sight."

"And what is injustice?" the Grand Master questioned his words. "Is it not what you plied at? Is it not why your fellows run scared?"

'Twas no easy answer Ramza could bring. Only silence and contemplation.

"Good. Keep silent. Think about it. About the world, the Gods and their meanings." Without further word Lord Folmarv turned and headed below decks.

A good thing too, as the ship lurched against waves and Ramza near felt his stomach come through his throat. Gods this would not be an easy voyage.

* * *

High Confessor Marcel Funebris relaxed as much as possible in the padded chair afforded to him in his quarters aboard the _Shadow of Intent_. The room was of modest size, and though immaculately cleaned with every provision provided for, it was not at all what one would expect the most powerful man alive to bed in. But _Shadow of Intent_ was not a ship to announce his presence. As he wore the simple white robe of an unimportant priest, so was the ship kept hidden with but a crew of most loyal Templars. And perhaps a single guest who caught the High Confessor's eye.

Sea journeys had been hard on him for many years and this was his first since before sixty summers. But the King's condition had required a show of utmost respect and none but he would due.

The last rites and funeral had been as expected. Dealing with the villainess Queen Louveria Atkascha was the most trying. Putting on a fair face for such a harpy had nearly driven him mad and being rid of the despot was among his fondest wishes.

A well night's sleep was also among them.

But as inviting as the mattress was, there was a critical matter that had yet to arrive. While waiting for his Grand Master to arrive, the High Confessor afforded himself a moment of vanity as he groomed his great white beard. How many more winters would his beard get to grow?

A knock at the door brought his attention to more important matters. "Enter Folmarv." It was full certainty that the Templarte Grand Master saw fit to enter.

So he did, glowering all the while. Had he not known the man as a reckless youth, the High Confessor would have sworn the man was born to glare at others. Even the master he served.

"Beoulve for true he is," the Templar said. "Honest, if foolish."

"As I said, was it not?"

"Aye. Always does your insight prove true, Holiness." Folmarv bowed before him. "How so, did you know?"

"I am the High Confessor. It is my privilege to know things others do not."

The man grunted at the line he'd heard enough times over his lifetime.

This however, was one of the few the Holy Father sought to explain. "Upon my time in Lesalia I took the confessions of a grand many men in secrecy. One among them, one familiar to I, talked of an error made in haste in battle. Of an innocent slain."

The ashen eyes of the Templar connected the story with what he overheard in Gariland. Clever as always, he announced, "Zalbaag Beoulve."

"Indeed."

"And so quickly did you order Loffrey to warn the Northern Sky of their traitor. You are the High Confessor indeed."

Such damming praise. "The Gods saw fit to show the young Beoulve to my sight. And I am but their humble instrument."

"Pray tell me, what is young Beoulve's purpose in the Templarate? Shall he clasp jewel to breast or take fair maiden's hand?"

"We shall see."

"Oh? I expected years-long intrigue."

Funebris narrowed his eyes at his Templar. "You forget yourself Folmarv."

"My apologies, Holiness."

Well enough. The High Confessor leaned back in the chair. "The Fifty Years' War was lost because Ivalice put too much stock in Their Majesties King Denamda II and King Denamda IV—Gods rest their souls. History has shown us putting too much hope into one man's success is folly."

"Let the Gods decide his fate then?"

"As always." Funebris exhaled a breath. "But no matter the path laid before him, having a malleable young Beoulve under our care brings a great many advantages." Yes, Zalbaag was torn between duty to family honor and the Gods, but this Beoulve had already cut such familiar ties. The possibilities were numerous and the rewards great. He would ponder this more, safe in Mullonde. Away from these waves crashing through the ship. "I daresay this is my last voyage outside Mullonde. These aches will never leave me."

"Then we should hurry and bring the crown to you."

Holy King, or Holy Emperor? Which title would suit him best?


	5. Chapter 4: Anointed Ashore

**Chapter 4: Anointed Ashore**

Time had lost all meaning as the meager contents of his stomach threw themselves outwards and into the sea. Once clear of food, it became bile that burned his throat and stained his mouth foul. He had steered the projection away from the ship's window below, but the whole circumstance had him seriously considering this as the primary reason to stay in Gariland.

Another lurch that barely avoided disaster. Would food in his stomach settle it? Water, at least. To refresh himself after his earlier exertion.

But whom to ask? The Templar sailors paid little mind to him to this point. All he could see looked busy managing the ship's stations. Their had to be a kitchen below-decks. So, with legs wobbling, Ramza broke from the rail and moved towards the stairs downwards.

The ship rocked and sent him hurtling into the deck, only narrowly avoiding slamming his head into the wood. A Beoulve slain by poor sea legs. What a miserable fate.

Until Delita and Tietra received their justice he would not falter.

That. That was why he was here. The Fortress showed how little power he could use to shield those he cared for, and Gariland a repeat lesson. Templar skill and Templar arms would give him what he needed. He could save those he saw. He would find his mates and clear their crimes.

But first he needed to pick himself off the deck. He set his feet square as he resumed his path towards the stairs—for a Templar clad in hooded tabard colored cerulean to rise above. The man peeked an eye of curiosity at Ramza.

"You're His Holiness' guest," he stated. "Seek nourishment after you've settled your self."

"How so, Ser?"

The man grunted in annoyance. "We'll be equals soon enough. No, 'Ser'."

'Twas time for Ramza to raise a curious brow. "I would be your equal as an apprentice."

"Did you think we preach equality and not embrace it ourselves?"

"Titles are still held."

"More formality than truth, but let this conversation be shelved 'til your boots touch land. Follow." The Templar moved on deck and back to the railings Ramza had just abandoned.

He, of course, followed, eager to be rid of his stomach ridding itself of all contents.

"There," the Templar pointed, "focus upon the horizon."

Doing so earlier had accomplished nothing. But he was not about to speak ignorant and followed instructions instead. The sea and its waves moved in odd patterns against the sky.

"The eyes fool the sense of self," the Templar continued, "focus 'til the sea is steady."

Such waves would never be still, but Ramza did listen. The tilt of boat slanted what he saw and nearly had him belch overboard once again. A surprise struggle to keep nothing down.

The Templar was content to offer no more words, leaving Ramza's attention fully to focus abroad.

Slowly did things stabilize. The sea and sky righted themselves and the boat's travel did not shake his stomach foul.

"I believe it works," Ramza spoke. Words no longer threatened literal bile at least.

"Good then. Arriving on Mullonde's shores with face greener than my tabard would be gossip for sure."

"My thanks then, for every day you've saved me embarrassment."

The Templar offered hand and Ramza gladly took it. Not as firm as the Grand Master's, but deftly an accomplished fighter. "Loffrey Wodring."

"Ramza Beoluve." The two parted.

Odd again that the man did not raise curiosity at the name. A face serious for true, and harshly by a Templar griefs, but not to the severity of Lord Folmarv. Jaw less square but still strong, and hair kept unseen by cowl.

"Of all Beoulves to enter the Church's direct service; it is odd pressed to believe it was the one who took no training."

"Scarcely do I believe it either." Lord brother Zalbaag was Knight Devout. Alma was aspiring cleric. Even lord brother Dycederg required the Church's approval upon his accession to Rune Knight.

"Tell then, what do you intend by taking this task?"

He mulled it over again, in spite of his earlier reasoning. Not a question to be answered without due consideration. To escape the Northern Sky? To flee his past? No, he would not call himself Beoulve were that true. Then was it to right wrongs? Deal with injustice? Surely the Templars could accomplish as such. Or perhaps, nay, truly was it to fight under a lord who would not betray those sworn to protect. "The Church is the righteous path. It is not held to the standards of nobles who care for prestige over lives."

"You think we above men's petty decrees?"

"I hope, —Ser—Loffrey."

A flicker of a smile at the edges of his thin lips. "You speak well, but not well enough."

Ramza slipped into a scowl. "My answer is my own. Satisfaction is mine alone."

"Nay boy," he shook his head. "We serve the Gods, not our own interests."

Scowl changed to acceptance. "I misspoke then." But the Gods would not tolerate idle evils, nor would he.

"But do not mistake; the Gods are first, but the victims of greed and war are a visible second."

More did this seem correct. "I understand."

"See that you do." Loffrey turned gaze upon the stairs. "The ship's galley is located two decks down, straight down hall. What passes for food will greet your nose before you enter."

"Than I shall stay to water and milk."

"I would not trust either."

How frightening must sea travel be if even the High Confessor's vessel served vile meats and drinks. "I shall take my chances then."

Loffrey offered a slow nod to end the conversation. Ramza took steady steps this time, and went below.

* * *

"Land ho!" cried a Templar sailor.

The sun that had risen on Ramza's new life now set. But a shine of light afar now illuminated the path as the ship was guided way to port by was of Mullonde's lighthouse.

Here was to be a new life as Templar. A life dedicated to what a Knight should be. The Gods and the meager.

Passengers began to rise from the lower decks. Loffrey among them, but the Grand Master and High Confessor not.

The ship finished its maneuvers, and settled into the berth. In the fading daylight, Ramza could not see the docks for absolute, but they were a sliver of activity compared to Gariland's. Either this was a privileged landing or Mullonde did not simply receive that much traffic. In consideration of the situation, it would surely be the former. Aye, as eyes adjusted to dark, those on dock bore Templar livery to mirror those aboard.

"Disembark but remain on dock," Loffrey suddenly spoke to him.

Ramza nodded and did as told, falling in line and leaving the ship once ramp had been lowered. The Knights Templar on dock eyed him a moment, before turning face towards other duties. Loffrey, meanwhile, headed inland, towards the buildings sometimes brightened in the distance.

Was he to wait for orders then?

A host of unfamiliar other sailors all followed after and into the darkness afield. Cut-short sleep and long day were riding Ramza's stamina low as was, this tension did not help.

Finally, after what was surely the whole crew leaving, did Grand Master and High Confessor appear. The Holy Father leaning on the Templarte arm as he descended to earth among his Knights.

"Good, you've waited," the Holy Father said towards him.

"Yes, Your Holiness." Even if he was unaware he was to.

"Your birth sign?"

"Excuse me?"

"Under what sign were you born, my son?"

"Capricorn, Your Holiness." Winter-born he was. Summer-made on a leave from Lord Father's advances in Ordallia.

With his free hand the High Confessor stroked his chest-length beard. "You've the positives for certain." Dropping hand to waist, he retrieved what seemed to be a leather-dressed wineskin. "Kneel."

Ramza did so.

"Ramza Beoulve," the Holy Father announced. "By the grace of the Gods, the will of High Father Faram and the Holy Child Sait Ajora Galbados. Do you swear your life in the service of the Church of Glabados, to serve the Gods in this life and the next, to uphold the vows of this Church and to protect and uplift the people of this land?

Was he? But this midnight he had never considered this life.

Yet here it was. What reason other than the Gods be for this?

"I humbly swear upon all that I am. To serve the Gods, to serve the people of Ivalice and never forsake my oaths." May this lord not betray.

The Holy Father uncorked his wineskin and a pleasant aroma leaked from it. Dabbing the liquid within on his thumb, the High Confessor stroked the oil unto Ramza's forehead.

"By Capricorn you were first born and by Capricorn you are born again for true."

'Twas his sign dabbed on temple.

"Rise now, Ser Ramza Beoulve, Knight Templar of the Church."

He rose to clapping of dozens of men unknown and the two he did.

"My thanks extends to the end of my days and beyond, Your Holiness."

"Accomplish much, my son."

Lord Folmarv stepped forward. "Loffrey goes to prepare word of your arrival at the barracks. Come morn, you will learn what it is to be Templar. But for now, go and rest. Follow the others."

"Yes, Lord."

"Then we depart."

The procession moved. Slowly, at first, to pace with the Holy Father. But when the paths split, so did the guard, and the one Ramza followed quickened considerably even in the darkness.

Building came by torchlight and Loffrey was among a few at the guarded gates of a two-story wall. A tilt of head caught Ramza as a follower into the modestly lit stone halls inside.

Loffrey, without breaking stride and back still prominent spoke. "You'll switch your Northern Colors for Templarate soon enough. When Alfredo wakens you be swift or you'll have too many welts to sleep. You've two peers in class: Folmarv's daughter and son. Be courteous but not spineless. And for Gods' sake last at least ten blows from Alfredo to save yourself some esteem."

It was a whirlwind of information to take. "I shall do my best."

"Do more. I've no mood to listen to Alfredo's boasts of besting a Beoluve in a single strike. Tiring enough whenever Zalbaag is brought to fore."

Never to escape lord brother's shadow, even here. Especially here. "The Templarate and ancestors shall be proud on the morrow."

"I shall hold you to it." Loffrey stopped at a well-furnished door. "This room is yours, for now. You'll receive more permanent accommodations whence return matters are settled."

"Thank you and good night then."

"Good night to you and may your day be fruitful." Loffrey departed shortly thereafter and Ramza did enter his room.

Modest in size, with but a trunk and bed. But it was warm, and would do.

Ramza peeled his clothes away and dropped sword aside and slid into sleep within a second.


	6. Chapter 5: Templar Training

**Chapter 5: Templar Training**

 _Cold cut to the bone, yet 'twas nothing to the cold that embraced his soul. Above on the bridge, Delita held his sister's body tight. Was it still warm? Was there still chance?_

 _"I'm sorry, Delita."_

 _Explosion rocked the Fort before step one could be taken by those who would aid them._

 _"What was that?" He looked upon the hole blown clear in the side of the snow-covered fort._

 _There, black upon white as smoke emanated from tower._

 _"Delita! We must away!"_

 _Fire engulfs vision, melts snow, takes Delita._

 _"Delita! Delita!" Arms of others take hold of him before he struggles through fire and flame forward._

 _All sign of Delita lost._

 _The Fort burned._

Ramza awoke to warm sweat soaking the sheets he'd sought comfort from.

The details of the nightmare truth burned in his mind.

Had sleep cut short once again? Or was he display poor punctuality for his new life? Lack of window and sunlight drew the discernment of time difficult.

The door was thrown open with a fierce kick and sunlight flooded the room. Blinding him from aught but the shadowed figure standing in frame.

"If you're awake you should be on the training field!" a woman's voice roared at him. Coming into focus, she was garbed in an orange dress. "What are you still sitting for? Move!"

"Yes, my lady!" Ramza swung out from bed, all thoughts of Delita and Tietra drowned by action. He reached for his tunic—

"Did I say to dress yourself!?" Her yell froze him stiff. "If I wanted you pampered I'd make the day of it! I said move—so move!"

Naked beyond trousers as he was he, still stood solid.

"Gods' sake boy, do you not understand move or are you as embarrassed for such waifish figure as I ?"

"I..." No! He slapped himself. "I understand."

"Don't 'understand': Move!"

All hesitation slain, Ramza beat his bare feet against rough stone and out door. Without heading as he knew but the path towards the barracks front.

Quickly was he overtaken by the woman Templar, marching and clanging in full gilded armor not covered by her sunset dress. "As slow of foot as wits. May Zomala visit you this night boy for none other could cure such sloth."

More worries for feet bloodied raw running upon stone all day. But letting her take lead would bring to goal, so Ramza kept mouth shut and complaints stowed.

She hooked a sudden right around a corner, and Ramza followed—barely seeing her move down a quick right turn. Again he followed, and into direct sunlight this time.

A square courtyard greeted him, with two others—a boy and girl seemingly his age already waiting. Pillars replaced walls facing the courtyard from all corridors nearby. Other Templars looked on, crooked smiles and eager greed played on their features.

Child's play to presume they were here to see Beoulve torn down by their drill master.

Ramza fell in line with his supposed fellows. They kept stone-faced, much unlike their senior compatriots. And much unlike him, as his face heated into a girlish blush at the exposure. The Templar's officer stood in front.

"At least you two are on time," she gruffly spoke. Her face born both a weariness of one who'd seen too much, with chin scars to match, and yet a sharpness to see much more. A curious woman for certain. "But for the rest of you!" she turned ire on the Templars around. "Unless you've wish to disrobe yourselves—scatter you jackals! Jape elsewhere."

Her words torn mirth from their faces and a dozen breaths 'twas but four of them remained in the courtyard.

"Feh," she spat upon the stonework. "They shall get their lessons later." Eye turned on him, she spoke, "Don't expect special treatment here, Beoulve boy. I've none for your 'savior' brother and even less for you."

"Yes, my lady." Earning another shout was at the lowest of priorities in his life.

"To your left are Isilud Tingelle and Meliadoul Tengille, trueborn children of Lord Folmarv. They shall have your respect. They shall respect you. All three of you shall respect me. I will laugh at you being shirtless. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lady!" He did not. Respect was always granted by his teachers. Lord Father, lord brothers and instructors in Gariland. Those who were not swayed by Beoulve name were the sole domain of Mullonde it seemed.

"Good, now drop." The two to his left did so and Ramza clumsily followed as they began floor-dips. His muscles, still sleepy, bore it slow at first, quickly outpaced by the two others as the instructor cast shadow over him. "Is that all Beoulve? I'd expect you be pushing Mullonde into the sea for all the fame your name accrues."

Truly did she have a vendetta against the Beoulves?

"Or perhaps your ego is not to your elders' levels." A brief pause, and her shadow's head shook. "Go 'til the stones drench so thoroughly a man would confuse it for after a rainfall."

So, he did. His muscles awoke firm the strain—then burned from lack of preparation. Before every instruct in life was time to warm and prepare. But he knew better than complain. Battle and war could come at any time.

He persevered to his limits, the cobblestones slowly darkening with his labor and hands and feet tearing raw.

"Switch!" she ordered and the two changed and Ramza followed. Sit-ups this time. His arms burned, but welcomed the relief. Even the slight coolness his exertion had formed to his back.

Again he pulled body to the best of his ability. But stress and less than nothing in his stomach kept poor pace with the duo so accustomed to this labor.

"Switch!" Leg lifts.

"Switch!" Arm pulls.

"Switch!" On and on it continued with all the exercises Ramza knew of and plenty he did not.

His movements grew more sluggish as the sun passed above. By midday the heat had grown intolerable and he scarily felt relief on his skin. It glistened still in the light, but much longer and he would fade as one would in desert.

"Stop!"

Ramza barely kept wits enough to prevent dropping face into pavement. The silent two breathed heavy but were accustomed to this, and were far from the wreck he was. His stomach was empty enough that worry was the organ would crawl out itself to reject this work.

The instructor's shadow loomed over, a slight reprise of coolness under sun's beats. A clang of metal against stone drew attention to a cup placed nearby his head. "Drink."

He devoured the water with a speed he never thought possible.

Small wonder he did not choke on it.

Warm and twanged with metal, it was the most delicious drink in his life. Even as his stomach groaned for food.

"When was your last meal?" she asked.

"'Twas..."

He had no idea. He'd accepted Loffrey's warning about the ship's meals and taken nothing in but a cup of foul water. Nothing in Gariland, little before that... Before the Fort, then?

"I cannot even remember."

"Aye, and now you've common ground with the Corpse Brigade."

He bristled at the name, and rolled to look her in green eyes. "Not hardly," he answered.

"Oh?" Mild surprise on her part. "Here I was steeled to hear brave tale of Beoulve vanquishing half-starved men fighting with rusted iron."

"I sought no joy in my meetings with the Corpse Brigade," Ramza, soured, said.

"So was it the walking wounded that changed your mind?" she patronized him. "Their lofty ideals or violent outbursts? Or perhaps a comely maiden caught your eye."

"I'll not debate this with someone absent from the field."

"Where does respect go these days?"

Enough of her taunts! "Strangled by nobles who would firstly choke on bread before they offered it to a starving man!" His outburst broke the stoned faces of the Tengille's. "Just the Corpse Brigade's cause was; but their actions: No!"

"That's what's said of all causes, of all actions."

"I'll scarce believe hurling bolt into innocent's chest is ever just cause."

"None are innocent in Ivalice," she scowled. "Sinners are we all born."

"All may be forgiven by the Gods' grace."

"Even he who sent bolt towards innocent's chest?"

He petrified.

"I've my answer then."

So did he.

The Corpse Brigade were victims yes, but it did not give them the right to make victim of others. So well, was Argath the same. Wronged for reasons not his own yet became enamored with grievances. More than any other he was alike the Corpse Brigade. The pinnacle of sickening irony that he so hated those victimized like him.

He must not fall into the same pit.

So long as men like Argath did raise arms in villainous ways, Ramza would stand opposed.

"Cut your introspective and take up sword." Weapons racks were settled on a few corners. He had missed them earlier? Or had they been moved?

Forcing himself up in spite of his body aflame, he followed the silent peers to one of the racks.

"Do not let her get to you," the daughter spoke. "We underwent the same upon our introductions."

"Though we retained our garb," the son smirked.

The day's direness had ripped any thoughts about his current state of undress far aside. "Considering the circumstances," he stretched his exceedingly damp trousers, "I think shirtless was correct."

"Ha," the son kept his grin, "now I see why the seniors come to gawk at us." He offered his hand. "Isilud Tiengille." His hair was nigh-spitting image of his father, color bolder by youth but clear similar. Aye, fair to say he was his father's son in all things. His features were more rounded, but a few years and he'd have his father's strong jaw. His tabard was colored green, and his arms lacked the armor of the instructor.

"Ramza Beoulve." Ramza took and shook.

"Meliadoul Tengille." She offered hers and again he shook. Vigorous it was. Likewise she would take after her mother then. Fair features, if tense. Her green cowl kept any strand of hair from being visible, and was also dress like instructor. And, perhaps it was simply posture, but she looked taller than himself. All his female peers at Gariland were shorter in stature, if even not by a hair's width. Adult women, like the instructor, did raise above. But she was the first within a hand's count of age that was his greater. "How well are you?"

Ramza hefted one of the training blades—nearly dropping it. "An unfortunate answer." He bent low to retrieve it. Like any training blade, it had its edges ground smooth. It could be used to bash, but cutting was beyond it.

"Good then," she shared her brother's smile. "She'll think you too infirm too fight. While we draw attention you strike her unawares."

"She means to fight us three as one?"

"She is well-rested, we are not."

Ah, sound strategy. Ramza nodded. "I will attempt my best."

"Do so. Or you'll be hearing her boasts while you slumber."

The siblings nodded towards one another and set off, blades at the ready. Ramza lumbered behind, doing best to not scrape sword against stone.

The instructor waited in center, her own sword in hand. (All the while the audience of other Templars had returned.) She had armor; they did not.

Small wonder Loffrey warned of welts.

"Come!" she roared her challenge and the Tengille siblings swiftly responded.

Meliadoul was the faster, striking to the front and drawing attention. As the instructor battered off the barrage in front, Isilud circled to her side and grasped blade high before swinging harshly. The instructor pulled away, leaving the son to clatter harmlessly against stone.

Meliadoul kept her pressure, advancing again. Her strikes still quick—and precise. She was attempting to shatter the instructor's sword. All her blows were well-timed to connect at a certain point.

But if Ramza noticed (as he slowly advanced) so surely would she. As Meliadoul swung again, the instructor moved in and caught her into a clash. Age, training and experience surpassed youth and she pushed the younger trainee back.

Isilud saw his moment and rushed in to aid his sister. His sword came in towards her side, but a sidestep threw Meliadoul into brother's attack and to the ground.

Too stunned by his failure, Isilud did not manage a defense as the instructor battered him with a flurry.

Blood flew.

Meliadoul returned to fight and stopped anther strike on her brother. Isilud staggered back... but found his footing and leapt above both blades.

The instructor made a daring dive under her leaping student. Melidoul capitalized and pressed the attack, with Isilud joining shortly after.

Her back was turned.

Ramza increased his gait and prayed his sword arm held high long enough. For even as he approached, the instructor but both Tengille's on the defensive. She was fierce indeed, the likes he'd only seen equal in his lord brothers and Wiegraf Folles. This was a Knight Templar.

Her assault nearly had the duo crashing into the returned onlookers. She smashed their blades into the pillars and even struck with open hand.

But she was distracted enough!

Blade high as he dare (to not strike the arch) he swung swift and silent!

But not true.

Her swing was a hurricane as it cut into his blade and rent it from his hand. She turned on foot, moment speeding her next strike.

All-too-familiar a strike!

A dozen spars of memory moved his body to avoid, but hours worth of exertion had him but blunder, trip and fall.

Her practice sword slammed into his head and slammed it to ground. Damns did it hurt.

"White Mage!" she shouted out, sword clattering to ground. She tilted his body upwards and sun stung his eyes. "Fool of a Beoulve, die on your feet at least!" Genuine concern took her voice and face. Meliadoul and Isulde joined after.

The sickly sticky feel of blood gobbed his blonde hair together above his ears. "I'll live," he assured them. "Lord Brother Zalbaag did once the same and I survived well." He truly should have expected it, in thinking back. "Your skills as an Ark Knight are wonderful, my lady."

"I need no praise from a pup like you." Relief washed over her face all the same. "Get yourself fed and well. Today's session is done." She stood upright and took her leave.

Meliadoul and Isilude took her place and helped him up. "Well," the male Tengille said. "I cannot say severe injury ever crossed my mind as an excuse to skip training."

Ramza gave a short—painful laugh. "One I'm not like to repeat."

"Least you retain humor," spoke Meliadoul. "Come, lean on us."

Perhaps part of his mind was leaking with blood, but he did not raise a fuss over being carried half-naked by a fair maiden.


	7. Chapter 6: Two Weeks a Templar

**Chapter 6: Two Weeks a Templar**

Meliadoul led the charge as she was want to do. Her sword taken against Alfredo's own flat. The Beoulve would move in to draw attention and pressure away from the lady after. His performance had improved remarkably after a proper meal and rest and he quickly filed the blanks in the Tengille's assault. With attention turned on these two, it gave the youngest time to soar through the sky and bring sword down from above.

It missed, as she was well aware, but his thrust after kept her on defensive and turned it swiftly into a three-way direct assault. Though she kept them all to her front (Isilud center, Melidoul right and Beoulve left), they pressed her more and more with each day and every second. Sword could only take so much from Meliadoul's timed swings and the formation was designed to take advantage of it.

With but a duo, she was always able to double down on a surprise attack and fight her way free or victory.

The third had stopped gap any previous flaws now.

So she would simply create them anew. She held shield forward, taking all the blows she expected and slid to the left while under its protection. Lining all three of her opponents. Before they could reform ranks, she bashed aside Ramza's strike and thrust his sword from hands.

Beoulve fell back as Meliadoul took center attention and covered her retreating ally.

Alfredo smirked, Isilud's coming strike was easy to see.

Suddenly being struck in the face, was a force she did not see. She stumbled in surprise as Meliadoul finished her task and battered away Alfredo's blade.

She knew Isilud's strike was coming but could not stop him from landing behind.

Shield alone was not enough to ward the Tengille's especially whence another unseen blow struck her leg out.

Two dullard sword points rested at her throat.

"'Tis our win, instructor," Isilud said with all the pride of any man would be at his first victory.

"Tomorrow's another day, students," she said and pushed away those tips. "One I'll recall Beoulve's martial arts." The blonde-haired lad stepped into view, hands still glowing from the effects of an aurablast. "Dismissed."

"Aye!" the three replied.

"I am well-timed then," Loffery's voice came behind and she turned to confront. "The Grand Master would see you this instant Alfredo."

"Then I shall greet him." 'Twas time for officer rotations, surely the reason for her summons.

"Do not get your hopes up," he dourly warned her.

Never was it good when he urged caution. "Another's been assigned to Gallione then?"

"Those words are for the Grand Master to speak," he paused and glanced at the trainees. "And not in front of others."

Also did it concern them. Lack of surprise again. "I said dismissed, students! Or do crave tomorrow's lesson today?"

The three scampered off towards the barracks mess. She would beat the smiles and triumph for them come dawn, but for now let their boasts amongst the rank-and-file inflate.

She kicked her pace forward and hurried her way to the Grand Master's office. Being presentable and punctual was impossible, but she could wipe sweat from her skin and slick her honey hair back.

She knocked on the heavy oaken doors upon her arrival. "Alfredo Remeres, reporting as ordered, Lord."

"Enter," his muffled acceptance.

Aflredo pushed the door open and closed it behind, leaving her with the Grand Master alone. He worked at his desk, in the unbelievably simple office. What would his children and the Beoulve think when they first lay eyes on it? Surprise at how dull the office of one of the most powerful men in Ivalice's was? Or admiration of the humble nature? Or what when they saw his grand office, lined with smoothest silks and glittering golds in the cathedral proper?

"At ease." Alfredo dropped her position. He looked up from the papers he worked on. "How fare their training?"

"They're comradery grows, as does their skill," she answered. "Beoulve skill-at-arms still exists, thinned by commoner it is. His inclusion completes the both, and the trio's forced me to swordpoint."

"In two weeks?" he raised an eyebrow.

"I've yet to unsheathe my true sword, but yes all the same."

"Do avoid killing. Your evaluation, in-depth this time."

She nodded. "Meliadoul is her parents' child true. She's her mother's looks and her father's sword. She compensates a woman's arm with a keen mind. She's a Divine Knight through and through."

"Isilud?"

"A Nightblade that one, with his constant hopping about."

"I'll see Claudino as his tutor then." He set aside two documents. "And Ramza?"

She bit her lip at them. "I've but two weeks experience with him and it is... not clear."

"Oh?" His interest vested, he leaned forward. "I thought he an Ark Knight like his brother and yourself."

"He fits it true, but more as well. Their victory today was brought by a sudden surprise of monkly arts derived from his fist."

"Not uncommon for a knight to learn a monk's skills to expand their ability. 'Twas your error that saw your lose, first and foremost."

She nodded again. "I aware my mistake, Lord. But it is not simply that he has a fair count of skills at his command."

"What then?"

How best to put her weary? "'Tis more than just an expanded skillset that worries me. Two weeks past did his life tear asunder and yet now he fights Templar so easily? He bonds with your sired swiftly, takes command naturally and fights ferociously."

"A Beoulve true, born-so or not." The Grand Master leaned back. "Ser Zalbaag was much the same with you and Marquis Elmdore upon his training here, was he not?"

She ruffled at the names. "True we were steadfast, for what little time we shared, but I would not put Zalbaag's command in battle above your own, Lord."

"You mean to say mine own children trust a boy they treat with for but two weeks above their own father?"

"I misspeak, Lord, they would trust their lives to you above any Beoulve, even Barbaneth himself, but already does he act as leader and commander in our fights."

"Then you worry they'd trust him over the other Templars."

"Yes, Lord." It'd taken a month for Meliadoul and Isilud to take even the first steps to cooperation in their spars. Perhaps they'd simply learned cooperation on their own... But again, it'd taken some time for the two to begin acting in unison. With three she'd expected a great deal difficulty, not to be on ground in a fortnight.

He gave a deep nod towards her concerns. "The specialized training should widen their perceptions of others then."

"You speak of Claudino, his return or does Isilud go to him?"

"He returns before month's end."

"Gallione is free then?"

"Loffery goes to replace him."

Ill-luck that was! Her sword eager to clash with Zalbaag's blade once again.

"Then Meliadoul?"

"She'll apprentice under Linnett in Bervenia."

She paused. "Not under yourself?"

He narrowed his eyes of coal. "The Lions draw ever closer to war. Ivalice teeters on knife's edge. But a handful of the Zodiac Stones grace our protection. My time is rife with work unending. I cannot spare even an hour teaching others. Even for my own flesh and blood." A rare moment of sympathy flashed his face.

"I'll see her disappointment short then, Lord."

"Good. Cletienne returns on morrow's midday."

"Has he been successful?"

Another head shaken 'no'. "I go myself to seek. But Leo's light may elude us."

Curses. The Gods' love may be easy, but their light was difficult to see in such trying times. Cardinal Delacroix's Scorpio, Loffrey's Capricorn and Cletienne's Gemini were but all the stones they had. What greater shame was there for the Church to not hold the most sacred of artefacts in its possession?

"Should then we not send more Templars, Lord?" she asked. "

Lord Folmarv sighed. "Nay, the High Confessor has forbade as such. Her Majesty's bloody-handed executions grow out of hand and too many roving Templars would be met with suspicious eyes by the paranoid harpy."

She could not help a stark laugh. "My apologies, Lord."

He waved concern aside. "Barich returns before week's end as well."

"Barich? Has the White Lions claws sunk into Lionel as well?"

"Nay, but he tires of toiling in Goug's machineworks."

"Oh? Shall he finally learn the sword then?"

"Enough with your pettiness regarding him. His hands are nor more fit for blade's hilt than Cletienne."

"Cletienne also does not spend every waking hour swearing bloody vengeance on the nobility either."

"We are here to rid ourselves of rotted aristocracy."

"And shouting it from the rooftops as he has shall have them with executioner's ax to our necks erelong."

He gave due consideration to that outburst. "Such passion shows our cause just, but reckless passion shows us fools. I shall order his temperament calmed before I depart."

"And if he does not comply?"

"Make him."

She smiled. Thudding the braggart would be much-needed relief after missing Zalbaag. "What then of Palamedes, Lord?" The last officer unaccounted for in this conversation.

"His last missive indicates Baron Grimms continues to be engaged in action with the Order of the Ebon Eye."

As the Corpse Brigade was to the Northern Sky, the Ebon Eye was to the Southern. That they survived past their eastern counterparts demise dragged Duke Goltanna's position through the mud.

"If their war of attrition continues, the Black Lion would be crushed beneath the Northern Sky. I go to assess the situation whilst I make my search."

"Such danger ser?" And such bias, after already did he warn her of the Queen's wroth.

"Assess and nothing more. It may be this turns to our advantage if we make smart work of it."

Such was the Templarate's Grand Master's wisdom. "I have every faith in your success, Lord."

* * *

The cheers, japes and well-wishes of the full-mantled Templars fell upon the trio who'd bested the lucavi-of-an-instructor the second their first foot crossed into the mess.

A dozen conversations exploded with them and little could they do to keep up. But eventually banter died as hunger rose and the trio were left to ply their meals in peace.

Save them finally a moment of peace amongst themselves quickly filled with their own excitement.

"I daresay the honey in our meals will forever be less sweet than her face," did Isilud say.

"Inscribe that memory well, dear brother," replied Meliadoul. "As she'll inscribe Judgement Blade upon us all whence."

"I thought her an Ark Knight?" Ramza asked. Her movements matched well with Lord Brother Zalbaag's own.

"You think her not capable of hiding another knight's skills?" did Meliadoul pose the question.

Clever enough that Ramza turned thought to it. After his martial surprise she was certain to bring forth new techniques her own. "We ought offer another surprise our own then." He smiled.

"Monk's fist or something else?"

They'd a plethora of options. Spell? Sword? Blunt perhaps? "I'll give it due thought."

"We all shall," added Meliadoul.

Lunch continued thereafter, with but light discussion of their options. Once meals were settled, the three parted ways. Ramza to his own quarters and the Tengille's elsewhere. "A secret," they annoyingly said.

A surprise for him soon, for sure. Positive, he hoped.

Room retired to, he again paused in the unfamiliar surroundings. Even as he stayed night after night, it never felt right. Well-furnished it was, though beneath both Beoulve's Manse and the Military Akademy's best. Far cry above thin tent canvas.

Bed and trunk retained from his first-day quarters, but added by weapons rack, armor rack, dresser, desk, mirror and windows. Even a cabinet for drink (filled with only empty glass now after he'd sent it away). Twice in size it was, that after so much addition enough room was free to practice his sword's strikes or fists blows.

It was an officer's quarters and he was dressed as such. Sky-blue tabard over the golden plate of the Templarate. Blonde hair freed from tied band and as clean he could make it. In the mirror 'twas hard to believe himself now, gilded as such. Northern Sky he sought for so long, Templar livery looked out of place in his mind's eye.

Yet it was true, and every night reminded him of such. Delita and Tietra's fate never left his nightmares. He'd just learned to manage it thinking of new improvements or speaking with the Tengilles.

It did not always help.

Sometimes he wondered how would Delita converse with them. Or Alma, or Tietra. How Fulke would earn their favor, or Glyda their admiration. Would they grow tired of Deitrich and Pelinne's fawning? Or embrace it like Stone did? Speaks of fathers fondly with Margarete?

Such thoughts ran as cold as Zeikden's snow. It would never happen now.


	8. Chapter 7: To Action

**Chapter 7: To Action**

The _Truth and Reconciliation_ slowed into port waters guided by the dawnlight touching sea for the first time this day. Landing craft was lowered, and the Templarate officer was of the few passengers. Though not one to row. Arrival was put with haste, for the situation he carried lost grip every second wasted.

To dock he arrived, and Grand Master Folmarv Tengille was there to meet him. "May you bear news that Saint Ajora has returned, Cletienne," he spoke with all the grump of a man due with a rest interrupted hours. "For little else should rise me before dawn while here."

Cletienne Duroi gave but a shadowed smile to his Templar Master. "Should Saint Ajora rise, I would have the High Confessor at your side as well, my lord."

"Then what matter concerns the Templarate at such ungodly hour?"

"My lord, I'd heard you were awake at such godly hour but a fortnight earlier?"

"Then is not _now_. Now spare your japes and I'll spare your tongue."

Mirth was over. "Aye, a matter for the Templarate I have, come from Gariland."

"Gariland?" his interest piqued with his eyebrows. "What trouble does the Magick City suffer that the Northern Sky cannot handle?" Though clear to both men only what it could be.

"We should speak in private then," answered Cletienne.

* * *

Ramza, Meliadoul and Isilud assembled in their training field an hour's half before the scheduled start. Alfredo's lessons could start between ten minutes before and an hour's after the time, but this way saved them the trouble of her randomly kicking their doors and ragging them out half-clothed.

So when she arrived scarcely a ten blinks after the trio readied themselves for whatever new method she had in store.

"Nay trainees," she surprised them all. "Report to the Grand Master's office."

Against his better judgement, Ramza asked, "What for?"

"Deployment."

'Twas far from the answer he thought. The Tengilles thought the same and all three exchanged glances.

"Or you could stand there looking pretty. MOVE!"

Their fates delayed, they hurried away from training hall to normal hall and normal pace. "Deployment?" Isilud said in wonder. "It seems lord father's taken notice of our achievements."

He was veteran true now, and thrown into combat less prepared than the two. But Knight Templars filled the halls, what could require the two Tengilles, or even him? "If so, what reason does he call for us today rather then?

"Busy perhaps?" Isilud gave his answer with a shrug. "He is the Grand Master." A loaf of pride tinged his voice more so than after their victory.

"To cancel training for such?" his sister countered his point. "Nay, some messenger brings dire news."

Ramza nodded in agreement. "Dire enough for trainees to hear? Foul indeed."

Isilud scowled at their resistance. "We shall learn whence then." Pettiness leveled itself in his voice.

Familiar enough pride from Ramza's own experiences at the Royal Military Akademy.

They arrived at the door, and a knock was answered with a "enter" that they obliged. The modest office of the Templarate's commander was graced by its owner and a Templar unfamiliar to Ramza's mind. White-grey tabard adorned over officer's armor, deep brown hair immaculately stroked, and a soft face baring a soft smile. The new Templar was the first man he'd seen greet him with a smile.

"You've returned, Cletienne," said Meliadoul, offering a smile all her own.

"That I have, but we'll depart erelong," said the new Templar, Cletienne.

"Our deployment is with you then?"

"Aye, the four of us to Gariland." Lord Folmarv grunted at his loose lips. "Mayhap I explain why first."

Lord Folmarv corrected him, "Introduction first or has etiquette left you?"

A look similar to a man struck by lightning ran across the newcomer's face. "I forget myself in haste!" he hastily answered. "Cletienne Duroi." He offered his hand.

Ramza took the handshake. "Ramza Beoulve."

They dropped their connection. "I'd heard we've a new Beoulve among us. Alfredo must take her frustrations with your lord brother out on you three."

All due consideration to the talk of elders, it was no more difficult than anyone else who endured her lessons.

"Do not forget your purpose in haste either, Cletienne." Lord Folmarv reprimanded him again. "To the point with Gariland."

"At once ser," he swiftly nodded. "Five days past I departed the Royal Capital Lesallia."

Remained behind from the High Confessor's visit then?

"Upon my return to the Magick City of Gariland, I sought prayer within a small church: St. Elmo's."

The very same Ramza met the High Confessor. An odd coincidence.

"I left erelong, but as I made way to port, the bells of the city rang."

"An attack?" said Ramza. The very same bell's proceeded the Corpse Brigade's assault before his first deployment.

"Aye, a troop of brigands had secreted their way into the city. But sense took its leave and they lashed out at a church as the target of their thievery."

Isilud spoke what dawned on all, "St. Elmo's."

He nodded. "I saw fit to defend the city and fell in with the Northern Sky garrison. To my surprise it was the church I'd just abandoned. Were I a tad more pious I would have prevented their intrusion." A grimace took its hold on his face. "But as it was, I warded the Northern Sky from shedding blood on hallowed ground."

"We are to deploy to answer this, then?" Meliadoul brought the insinuation to bear.

"I could not take the four men seen inside by myself and I do not trust the Northern Sky. More so with the congregation held inside."

Ramza dipped his head. "Then there is no guarantee they remain." The Order's history had proven itself too clear.

"Ziekden Fortress was done for convenience," said Lord Folmarv and Ramza's hairs did bristle at the name. "To challenge a Templar's authority on secular grounds is no convenient to the Northern Sky."

"I thought the same once," he bitterly replied.

"If we arrive to dead men, then dead men shall we make," Cletienne wryly answered.

A stark laugh left him. "I shall believe it when mine own eyes bear witness."

"Let us hope it does not come to that."

"To the point, Cletienne." The Grand Master's patience wore thin on his brow.

"The men in the church now claim sanctuary."

"Curs!" Isilud stomped forward. "They try thievery and turn to clemency when their plot is revealed?"

Cletienne shook his head. "Nay, I say 'twas their goal all along."

"What for?" Meliadoul asked.

"For crimes against the crown whence they held swords in service of the Corpse Brigade."

A stunning silence gripped the room as befuddlement took Ramza's head. The Corpse Brigade? Why now? How now? They were eradicated upon Ziekden Fort's explosion. Lord Brother Zalbaag would not let Wiegraf Folles escape.

Yet, did no news of Wiegraf's end come. None specific. Presumption was his thought that the man died with his cause.

But if dregs remained, did their leader?

"How do they survive their forces end?" Meliadoul recovered first with question.

"I thought them ended myself," Ramza bitterly added.

Lord Folmarv answered, "Their cause goes beyond them now. History records them, wrong, true, but their mark is made in noble's nightmare, knight's besmirched honor and common's hope. The Corpse Brigade shall never, _truly_ die."

"See you every member to the sword yourself, Ramza?" Cletienne took it further. "Nay, even if you had, they are like a dandelion's seeds, try as you might to catch every one scattered to the winds, some shall always slip through your fingers."

He diverted his gaze. "Is this why I am summoned? For my expertise in cutting down men hefting sword in righteous cause?"

"They hold hostages Ramza!" shouted Isilud. "They loose all claim to righteousness when they lash against those who did them no wrong!"

"We did them no right either." Ramza grit his teeth.

"Then shall we?" Lord Folmarv's calm voice drew all focus. "They ask for sanctuary and we shall oblige them."

Focus half became confusion again, but Ramza felt his spirits rise. "For true? Lord Folmarv?" But no, he'd heard such honeyed words before. Until they were brought safe and sound he would not capitulate so easily.

"That will rely on your negotiation or skill-at-arms."

He'd little training as an orator, but the attempt was enough. "I will not disappoint."

"See that you don't." He looked to his children with a father's sternness. "Return alive, my children. Follow Cletienne's orders and Ramza's lead. May Saint Ajora light your way."

"Thank you, Lord Father!" the two replied in unison.

"Then shall we?" Cletienne threw his arms wide. "My sailors wait for us."

"We must ready true arms before we set sail," stated Ramza.

"Oh?" Cletienne smiled. "I thought negotiation your goal?"

He nodded. "I seek peaceful resolution, but nor shall I blind eyes to the reality of force."

"Fair said."


	9. Chapter 8: Home

**Chapter 8: Home**

The three, geared full for battle marched upon the deck as dawn's early light now gently fell upon them. Cletienne waited for them nearby a small rowing boat, but scowled as they approached.

"Why do you wear a Templar's armor?"

The three exchanged looks of confusion, leaving Meliadoul to answer. "Because we are Templars?"

"Templars about to travel by sea," he stressed the word so harshly. "Should you be swept overboard you'd reach sea's floor before all breath left your body."

"You don armor the same as we," Isilud pointed out.

"I can also teleport," he retorted, "so less Alfredo has taught you such, disarm."

"Hold!" one of the sailors, a man well into his winter years, burst into the conversation. "If you could magick your way from drowning you could have done such to arrive and spare us this work!"

"It was within my ability, yes, but your work is to escort them, not me."

The sailor cowed back at being outspoken.

Ramza said, "It would be more efficient to remove while on board."

"Fine," he relented, "but do not curse me should you make sea your casket."

"I shall ponder why you did not warn us earlier instead."

"I thought you educated enough to know simple things. 'Twas my error, I shall adjust expectations thus." He looked a child playing with defenseless animal.

"We all adjust expectations," Ramza's last words before they all took seat in the boat. It sank a foot's length and crooked Cletienne's lips smugly. Not willing to give him satisfaction, Ramza kept silent, and so the trip stayed 'til they reached the proper vessel.

Hauled on board, the instant all were on deck Cletienne yelled, "Set sail for Gariland!"

"Aye, aye!" the ship's master responded. Sails unfurled, anchor weighed and rudder shifted. They were on their way again.

Firstly did the three trainees unburden themselves of their armor, though their sword belts and swords attached remain.

"Wind is best felt on your skin, is it not?" Cletienne mused towards them.

"Who cares for wind when battle is upon us?" Isilud ignored him. "Our first taste of true battle, sister!"

"Conserve your haste, Isilud," she cautioned him. "We are not there yet."

"You are as eager as I," he gave her a wide-brimmed smile. "Time to show father and mother you are a true knight."

"I need not their approval for myself!" her voice raised to cover a lie. "I am a knight true already."

"Oh?" Cletienne broke the conversation between siblings. "I wonder the reason why the elder by two years graduates with her younger than."

Meliadoul crossed her arms. "Easily could I have succeeded two years past," she said. "I stayed my training start to watch over him. He is awfully clumsy, and needs a sister's guidance."

"What?!" Isilud stepped forward. "I am no child in need of my sister's coddling! I am a knight true as well!"

"Such tender love between siblings," Cletienne interjected again. "Does it remind you of home, Ramza?"

"Huh? No."

"No surprise then, that you did not get along with your lord brothers. But your young sister nor? News for sure."

"Oh, right, Beoulve..." He bite his lip. His other home. "Nay, I mistook the question as my mind wandered. My relations above were... cordial. As close as any could be with Dycedarg, I would fain imagine. Zalbaag was the more... physical brother, as I feel all agree. Alma I saw little of these past years, but she is a sweet girl. A well friend to all." Should he have sent word to her? But how? Now? He shook his head. "Well then, Cletienne Duroi, what manner of family do you have?"

"Baron's son and of mother devout. Upon graduation from the Royal Military Akademy I offered my mind to the Gods and Lord Folmarv accepted my humble skills."

Humble was not the man in front of him in any sense. "So you're my senior in two ways then?"

"A third, if you've ever spent any time at the Royal Akademy for the Magickal Arts?" Ramza shook his head no. "A pity, though in honest speak I spent but a month there. Tell me, is old Darlavon still putting whole classes to sleep?"

A tight smile tucked unto Ramza's face. "Aye, it's reached such levels there's even betting that occurs to who would last the longest."

"Betting?" he excitedly stepped forth. "For true?" He burst into laughter. "A wonderful idea, and a curse my generation did not think of it!"

"True indeed, all our bets were won by Darlavon's own daughter."

"I've heard she's a maiden fair."

"Aye, and a friend true."

"She was in your squad then?" Ramza nodded. "A fair take to you then."

They were afforded a few more broadswords than their peers...

But pleasant thoughts turned ugly now. Was Master Darlavon in trouble for Margarete's actions? His actions? Had they escaped? This would be the time to ask...

"But," Cletienne continued, "your face is well-known amongst the city then."

"The instructors, true, and perhaps Order's officers. Still, I understand the concern, I shall wear full-faced helm in city's confines."

"And your name?"

"I... shall simply refrain from mentioning my lineage."

"And if you encounter a particularly pressing officer?"

"I think that not likely."

"I am a particularly pressing officer."

Fine then. "Lugria then." His mother's surname.

"Ramza Lugria?" Cletienne adopted a cocky grin. "Your mother's I take it?"

"Best you not know."

"I shall presume then."

Their trip and conversation continued after, nothing so deeply concerned as falsified names or sibling rivalries. The ship made well time, and by noon's sky they were placed back within Gariland's docks. Clad back in mail, and full-faced helm for Ramza, the Knights Templar made way inwards.

It hadn't changed, in Razma's eyes. People talked, people walked, they bartered and bickered and lived. Corpse Brigade gone, King taken. Life went on, even as men and order who held power over them parted.

Would the works he do sometime fade from memory? From the minds of any he helped? The Beoulve name would live on, but he was Beoulve no more.

'Twas not time for such thoughts. Best his mind focused on events ahead. Let who would remember be a question for another time.

Eventually the presence of commoners lowered, then ceased. Familiar streets they crossed, towards a perimeter of Northern Sky knights. But two covered the road, lax and slack and a good deal bored. Man and woman, both their stances sharpened on sight and they stood as proud as one could be after a number of hours standing idle. "You're the Templars?" the man of the pair asked.

"Any other day I would make some jape at such masterful presentation of the obvious, but yes, we are Knights Templar," Cletienne called jape anyway.

It stung the knight's pride however, and the man's toiled features twisted into a scowl. "You command us wait while Corpse Brigade holds daggers to throats and then come mock us?" His more-fair partner turned to disdain as well.

"Never in my dreams dare I mock a most honorable Knight of the Northern Sky such as oneself. Such vaunted concern for the hostages within deserves only the highest praise."

"Enough of this farce!" the knight glowered in anger. "Have your business done before we do!"

"At once, my lord!" Cletienne bowed even as the knight's temper rose. But both Order knights stood aside to let the four pass.

Out of earshot, the question came forth. "What avail us aggravating the Northern Sky?" asked Meliadoul. "An awful risk for no gain."

"Tell me, what runs through their minds after our passing?"

"Anger and confusion, for true."

"Aye, and pettiness and spite. Rude I was certain, and for certain cause. When we reach success, their wounded pride will mend."

"I do not think their pride wounded by childish japes."

Cletienne brushed his hair astride. "Not by my words now is their ego bruised, but my words whence. Templars to solve problems in Northern Sky land? A black mark on the Order's record. Nay, I simply struck flame to the fuel already there. And we'll douse it with Saint Elmo's return."

"I do not think them so easily placated."

"Did you not note their most heartfelt concern for their fellows lives?"

Ramza shook his head. "More of the Order's hollow promise."

"I meant their true fellows, their knightly comrades. Will they not he happy to hear we undertake risk, instead of them?"

"I think you pluck issue from air."

"Nay, I pluck feather from chocobo's hide because I can move through space and time."

Ramza was growing increasingly tired with the man's mannerisms. "Then shall you use such?"

"We shall see."

Their talk stopped short as they stopped before Saint Elmo's Church. A score of knights, squires and chemists surrounded the building (and surely a score more where Ramza's eyes did not see). None whose faces Ramza recalled from his time as a Northern knight.

Sights exchanged, a dark-haired knight bearing a cape rank sergeant stepped forth and greeted them. "Sergeant Allister, Order of the Northern Sky." A woman chemist and young boy squire soon joined him.

"Ser Cletienne Duroi," he introduced himself. "Lady Meliadoul," she bowed, "Ser Isilud," he as well, "and Ser Ramza," he last.

"Arnald," the male squire bowed, "and Ophellia," she curtsied in her chemist's dress.

"How fare the situation?" asked Cletienne.

"Four men: squires three and a thief to lead; demand food and drink and we to retreat. Their equipment, such as it is, fares as well as any common man who lifted sword. My men remain eager to strike at their hearts, should you need us."

"Come now, these men sought sanctuary, we can discuss this like civilized men."

The sergeant roared with a bitter laugh. "You return with more Templarate arms and speak for peace? I shall believe such when they are clasped in irons of their own accord."

Cletienne's lips formed a smile at the challenge. "Well then, shall we discuss our strategy?"

"I am all ears."

"Ears I do not want!" Cletienne brushed him away.

"Mind your place Templar. Your ground is beyond that door, no more no less, and you still stand outside it."

"I meant no disrespect," he vainly attempted to placated the increased frustration forming on the sergeant's face, "and mean none more. But I simply request we alone handle it. Our victory is much assured and we wish to see the looks of surprise on your knightly guises whence we return without a scratch."

"Don't force me to repeat my words."

Cletienne leaned in. "Simply let Templar do as Templar wants and we shall all ease through this with medals and commendations around."

The sergeant grunted. "Feh, where was this spirit Templar, when the Corpse Brigade marched on Gariland's streets a month prior? At least you shall not move far for funeral rites." He faced his knights. "Come! Let the Templarate clean its own."

Cletienne's smile grew only wider as the knights watch scurried away. "Well now," he turned questioning gaze to Ramza, "what ploy do you prefer?"

"Talk, nothing more."

His answer only cause Cletienne to shake his head. "You say you understand the need for force? Well we've need of force."

A small twinge of hope was it need not come for it. "Let us enter and extend our offer."

"If they don't let us enter?"

"You can teleport."

"Now you're learning."

Only fool tricks. "Our first goal is to extend the offer of sanctuary. If they lay their arms aside and release their prisoners, we shall accept their surrender and ensure their prison stay fair."

"I doubt much they the like of that. When force is required then?"

"Should it come to that. If we are allowed inside we shall simply relieve them of their swords."

"You speak it so easy."

"It is," Meliadoul answered. "I shall snap their tainted iron like a twig."

"I as well," Isilude added.

"Isilud should strike at our furthest foe, I at the nearest and Meliadoul one next to mine—to my left if there's another of equal closeness. Cletienne shall take the remainder."

Cletienne ruminated on the idea in his mind before speaking again. "You would expect them to allow you within ten paces so easily?"

"Unarmed as I intend to be, yes."

"Ha, then you shall bend steel with fist then?"

"I expect to shatter rusted iron and tear rotted leather from men fed nothing but wafers and thirst quenched on holy water."

That elicited a smile from each. "Well then," Cletienne said again, "what if but one is allowed inside?"

"Myself then," he offered, "I shall signal with a shout for you to sneak-teleport behind them while I draw attention. If you're a time mage of such skill, holding their time itself shall be an easy feat. Any not caught within its confines I shall incapacitate."

"What of the hostages?" said Isilud. "We've no way of knowing their positioning."

"Like kept aside, rather than shield." Corpse Brigade well-knew the uselessness of a common's life as a ward of knight's wrath. "But, if they are within our way, we shall simply default to Cletienne's spells. There is no-safe consideration otherwise."

"Your confidence is astounding in light of our lack of information."

"Life is a series of unknowns," Ramza retorted. "We simply act and plan as we must to the best of our knowledge." Cletienne only gave a smile as answer. "Do either of you object to this?"

Neither answered off the cuff, but their minds clearly wrought with thought. Meliadoul voiced her concerns first, as she oft did. "To what maneuver do we attempt if we are unable to take their weapons apart?"

A wise precaution to bring. "If they hold men as shields, or make for it, strike for the kill. If they do not, do all you can to continue drawing attention or rend arms."

She accepted the answer with a nod, and enough time passed for Isilud to arrive with a question. "What shall we do if there is more?"

He'd never had to deal with reinforcements he'd not seen arriving. "There is little to plan in such a situation. Do as your best judgement leads you. Whoever is closest take any new foemen."

"This weighs ill on my mind."

"Only the Gods' love and taxes are certain in this life," Cletienne cheerfully called out.

"You forgot death," Ramza reminded him.

"We shall all live on in Paradise, will we not?"

"Aye." And may he find Delita and Tietra swiftly when he arrived. But for now, he would make sure few men as possible were moved aloft. "If there is no more?" And no more there was with three "nos", "Then we move."

He took lead as planned, and as planned the others fell in behind. Their armor clanked aloud, their boots pounded the pavement. All eyes fell on them, all sound was theirs. His body burned; his heart pounded. His mind was ice; his movements were water.

The modest wooden doors of Saint Elmo's were in front of them before long. Four Knights Templar, and four Corpse Brigade within. None doubted who would emerge victorious should it come to blows. All doubted those inside would come quietly.

Ramza knocked on the doors of the church, a rattling that all would hear for blocks. "You have asked for sanctuary within, and we the Knights Templar have granted you audience."

Three breaths passed before an answer came from within. "Sanctuary?" a man's voice, desperate and crazed. "Ha, we demand food and they summon Church Knights on us? The Northern Sky remain ever craven I see."

Had Cletienne not said they claimed sanctuary? Curious. "Our offer extends the promise of food and drink in exchange for words."

Laughter erupted from within. "I'd rather honey reach my stomach than clog my ears. Temple Knights are no more worthy of trust than Order Knights."

"Yet you rely on them for sustenance?"

"Sooner than I'd rely on 'higher powers'."

"You sought solace of Gods and we have come to offer," said Ramza. "Accept, and all shall live."

"All shall live? Once I heard all would be paid for raising sword in crown's name. Tell me, Templar, where that ended?"

No argument would reach this man then, and certainly no offer of surrender. Ramza nodded towards his compatriots. "If that is your peace, so be it." He pulled rations from his belt. "I shall give you my weeks rations."

"Poisoned no doubt!"

"Believe what you will, but you ask for food and drink then spurn the offer?"

"Than we shall eat fat off human hide! Fair time we ate well while noble suffered."

He could not help but flinch in disgust. The world be best off without such men, but his convictions would not break so easily. "The men within those halls are no more noble than you. Commons men and women and shepherds all." Ramza returned his rations, trading life for death as he drew his sword.

"Any flesh not fed on grass and leaves is noble these days."

Suddenly did Ramza kick the doors inwards, catching the thief in a gap of surprise. The swiftness of both was commendable as thief brought knife to bear in half a breath and Ramza's sword struck it from hand by breath's end.

Meliadoul moved her part, slipping past the door man and to the squire man with mouth agape. He could not even reach his sword before Meliadoul had hers at his throat.

Isilud moved past them all, towards the women squire at the end of the pew rows. She was the swifter compared to the earlier counterpart, but Isilud was a number of times the stronger and aided by his falling momentum as his jump cracked the sword from her hand and he fell upon her.

Cletienne, true to his boasting, was now behind the final man behind the alter. As the squire brought his blade to the throat of a holy man, Cletienne's holy words left his lips and the squire became like a living statue.

The thief, all that remained able, swore. "Lying church bastard!" His hands moved to pry sword from Ramza's gasp, and the Templar as all too happy to let him. For the sudden surprise tripped the thief, unbalanced his position. Eager then, Ramza capitalized, and struck with fist towards the man's jaw, knocking him into the closest of pews.

Relief flooded his body. "Is everybody alright?"

Meliadoul cut her opponents sword belt aside. "Well here."

"And here," Isilud answered, and kicked the fallen squire's sword away.

"Soon enough." Celtinne disarmed his foe and pushed him towards Isilud, who now held both on the ground with his sword.

An eruption of cheers drowned them all as the congregation threw their thanks forward.

"Peace and ease!" Cletienne calmed them. "Is anyone injured?"

"No, no, no," spoke a priest Ramza remembered as present on his last visit.

But there was one injury said priest would not be concerned with. Ramza moved to the thief bleeding from a head wound opened upon striking the pews. He lived, and a swift chant of 'cure' would see it true for certain. He tore the man's bandanna free, blonde-hair wreathed in dirt falling free, and tied his arms as best as possible.

He retrieved the weapons, and dragged the thief to Isilud as Meliadoul marched her prisoner to join the group. "Now that was exhilarating," she exclaimed, eager smile on her lips.

The men and woman captured were pale, sick even. Their cheek bones had sunken, and the thief weighed less than Ramza's armor.

Still, he would not upend their cheer with the truth. This was a victory, in every sense of the word and even he'd forgotten how sweet the taste.

With all four foes under watch, Ramza turned to the church priest. "Are there any more? Yours or theirs?"

The priest, with his tan church robes, well-trimmed beard and balding brown hair gave a look of worry even as he spoke. "Of both."

"I was right," exclaimed Isilud, the only one with cheer now.

"Where are they then?" asked Ramza.

"All are within one of the church wings," he answered. "But fear not, their fifth fellow is unable to help."

"Why so?" Had he been struck by Northern Sky or church patron?

"They came to this church seeking aid for him. Burns cover his body, and his eyes never once opened. I fear he will not make it."

And if he was Corpse Brigade, he could go to no doctor's practice or white mage's station. The kindness of a church was their only chance.

"We tend to ill-favored here, that can not afford a gil to a chemist's pockets. But we are not trained fully in the ways of white magick, and can do naught but make the unfortunate comfortable."

"I understand," replied Ramza. "I will go and retrieve this final man. Meliadoul," he faced her, "please escort these people outside and inform Sergeant Alister of the situation."

"Very well," she said. "Please, follow me," she led the freed prisoners forward.

However, the priest did not. "Please, allow me to accompany you."

"It is your church Father, and my honor."

"The honor is all mine!" he puffed out his chest. "You've saved all our lives, 'tis the least I can do to repay you. Come, come," he beckoned Ramza forth towards one of the church wings.

Temple Priest and Temple Knight headed to a small hall, lit by sunlight coming in small windows.

"I have some skill, however meager, with the white magick arts," said Ramza. "I may care for your other wards, pray you desire it."

"Of course, of course! You have been the Gods blessing upon this house. I only apologize their is naught more I may do to repay you."

"Serving the Gods is repayment enough." Elation continued to breathe life into his heart. This was right, this was just. The Gods' love did exist and he now embraced it. Men like his brothers may turn from a righteous path, men like the Corpse Brigade may seek it in wrong ways, but men like this, like Isilud, Meliadoul and even Cletienne and his japes made it all worthwhile.

"I am Ramza, Knights Templar."

"Fiebras! Head priest of Saint Elmo's Church. I hope our humble house may provide for you."

"Lives saved is provided enough."

"Were all men such as you!" Fiebras' excitement continued to rise. "War would be gone from the world by day's end."

"You give me too high an honor Father," said Ramza. "I am but a humble servant of the Gods."

Fiebras shook his head. "You have saved my life, a dozen more, taken prisoners where most men would make corpses, and still seek _more_. You are a man most gallant, Ramza."

Nay nearly a Knight Gallant as Lord Father. But he kept those words to himself, as they reached hall's end. The door adjacent was already open, and Fiebras gave way inside.

A small room greeted him, a half-dozen beds—three occupied. Closest was a man more burn than flesh, the Corpse Brigade's man. A fair-haired woman was three beds down, and...

And...

He blinked a dozen times. Pulled face guard above and rubbed his eyes raw. Pinched his cheeks. Timed his heart's beats.

Fiebras gave queer looks. Ramza did not care.

He rushed to the final bed. There was no mistaking it, no doubting it. No chance did he dream!

" _Delita_!"


	10. Chapter 9: A Cracked and Broken Pillar

**Chapter 9: A Cracked and Broken Pillar**

"Delita!" Ramza cried havoc at the sight of his dearest friend laying infirm in bed. He tore helm from head as he gripped his friend's hand. "Delita, 'tis me, Ramza!"

Unmoved he was, save for the breath of life moving his blankets ever so little.

"Open your eyes Delita!"

Vision blurred.

"You live, Delita," Ramza gripped his friend's bare hand even tighter. "you live."

"Excuse me," the priest called out.

"What is it?" Ramza rebuked him. None should dare interrupt this reunion.

"I take it you know the lad?"

"Of course." Ramza let hands separate. Clearing his eyes, he faced the priest. "'Twas—is a friend most dear, thought lost." And if he lived!—"Tell me, how he came to reside here? Was he alone? Was a girl fair the same with him?"

The priest shook his head. "No, no, he arrived here a week prior on chocobo's back. He had a pendent clasped between his fingers, and armor melded to his skin from burns. We've cared for him as best we could, but he hasn't woken since."

Then Tietra was... No, if Delita lived, Tietra might still! "I see, I, thank you."

The priest offered only a short bow.

"Pray inform my compatriots we have two men to move."

"I shall," Fiebras answered and left the two alone.

Ramza collapsed unto the nearest bed, the rush of emotion of battle and life slowly draining. "You're alive... you're alive..." he repeated like a monk's mantra. Truly was this the work of the Gods!

"If she lives Delita I vow we shall find her, together." The Gods would understand. It weighed upon him enough with Fulke and the others. He would not fail Tietra a second time.

But he might fail Delita! The burns! Ramza vaulted to his feet and threw off the sheets covering his friend. The simple cotton rubes covering his body could not cover the burns on half his body. Instantly did Ramza drop to his knees and shout all his power into a spell. "Retain the breath of life with heavens' blessing: Cura!" The white magick flowed into his friend's battered body. Before his eyes the burns receded and color flowed more to his face and limbs. But 'twas not enough, and his eyes remained closed.

Again! The ways of the white mended more flesh.

Again! Even as Ramza's grip staggered the burns grew ever smaller!

Again!

"Stop!" Cletienne gripped both his arms. "Any further and you'll be bedded alongside him and I wager that not your fancy."

Ramza struggled against the other Templar's grip, but the curas had sapped his stamina fiercely. 'Twas in vain. "I'll not stop," he said. "Not 'til his eyes open wide again!"

"They shall if only you cease this suicidal spellcasting!" Cletienne pulled Ramza away and locked the man eye to eye. "Mullonde hosts enough clerics, white mages and priests more skilled than a single Templar chanting cura."

"I'll not wait, not while his sister remains gone as well." He ripped one arm free for a breath, but it was gripped ironclad after. "I won't abandon him."

"What of your actions make like abandonment?!" Cletienne yelled straight to his face. "You would drive yourself near-death for him."

"No, I didn't!" Ramza shouted back. "No I didn't! He lived! If I had but ran through fire and flame, if I had stayed..." He fell to his knees, and Cletienne's grip did falter. "I abandoned him, as my lord brothers did." And the grip did slack entirely.

Cletienne sighed and fell upon the nearby bed. "Fine, you did. You are the same as your brothers _then_ , but not _now_. Does that have your peace or shall I listen to you berate yourself until his eyes open?"

"Don't placate me." Ramza turned towards Delita. "When the pillars of my life came crashing down I did not stand and watch them fall. I turned and walked away."

"Away from those lord brothers if I recall."

There was no reasoning with this man.

"Admitting defeat? Come, hurry and take him up, I shall carry the other. We have a trip to Mullonde to take and a berating from Lord Folmarv to hear."

Ramza wordlessly took to his feet. It was still difficult, but he would not falter. For Delita's sake. He wrapped his friend in sheet and... did not raise him. His arms simply lacked the strength now. Helping him meant he couldn't help him. How absurd! Plying all the strength he could muster, Ramza lifted his friend from the bed!

Then nearly fell into another. Only Cletienne steadying him prevented Delita from crashing headlong into the floor.

"Understand now?" Cletienne asked.

Ramza shook his hand aside and walked for the door.

"Come now," said Cletienne. "Do not turn away my assistance. We shall have Isilud handle the fifth man."

There was no arguing and no use in it. Wordlessly, Ramza slipped Delita off his shoulder. Cletienne did his part, and the two were away.

* * *

Truly did the Gods work in mysterious ways that Ramza Beoulve would find the very person whose demise set him on the Gods path very much alive. In the very same church he met the High Confessor no less! It would drive the lad so deep into loyal fervor even Lucavi would not deter his devotion.

Providing, of course, that the wounded friend's eyes opened. But that was Mullonde's concern now. Cletienne's was just ensuring that the boy made it to the holy cathedral in the first place. Even as the Templar Beoulve staggered down the hall, his strength and name would rally many to the Church's cause.

They exchanged no words before returning to the chancel. Meliadoul had returned with a half-dozen Northern Sky Knights who were clasping irons around the Corpse Brigade wrists. Their sergeant and his aides spoke in hushed tones with the priest who'd accompanied Ramza earlier, but broke it when the trio returned.

"You make us believe in miracles, Templar," the knight sergeant addressed him. "To spill no blood, require no potion and take no strike? Men of God indeed."

Though he so did love the praise, it was a time for but humble acceptance. "We simply did as the Templarate should."

"You've my thanks, Ser Cletienne."

'Twas time to close shut this farce. "Ser Isilud, the final member of the Corpse Brigade still resides behind. Go, return with him. And Ser Ramza's helm." If the Beoulve's hair wasn't half-covering his face he'd returned it before. But as things went, he let it go.

Isilud gave a nod and went as ordered.

"Oh?" the sergeant expressed his surprise. "I thought the one you carry the fifth. Let my men assist yours then."

"Gods would have it, this is one of ours thought lost a fortnight ago." True enough to one among them. "Kind as it is of you to offer carry to the docks, we've no need to press the Northern Sky any further." The baited hook was loosed...

"What?" And quickly taken. "Gariland is under Gallionne's purview—our purview. These men are ours to take."

"Oh?" Cletinne kept his lips even in spite of every eager tug at his heart to curve them upwards. "Was it not your words earlier that our ground is inside this door and yours outside? And we are very much inside this day."

The sergeant recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "They are men wanted by the crown!"

"And by the Gods. So," he could not help himself from leaning forward and smiling, "unless you would claim crown's authority over the Gods in our own House, these men are prisoners of the Knights Templar."

He snarled back at him, a savage dog foaming and eager to tear an invader's throat out.

Isilud returned, prisoner on his back, to hear the sergeant shout. "Your pretty words will afford you nothing."

"That is what three swords and my staff are for."

Heresy ran through the knight's mind. Could he slay the four of them, the prisoners too? Silence the crowd they'd just released? All to save himself modest embarrassment.

Disgusting, these men that played at chivalry. So quick to abandon the honor and codes they should serve for such petty slights.

"Half as much as an escort would require, Ser Cletienne. You are most correct that these men should be judged by the Gods. But in all good conscience I cannot let your return go without escort, and my apologies beside."

Their attempts at bargaining were always the most pathetic to behold. Whether they acted to snare a trap themselves or salvage what their pride had ruined, it had never worked. "Your apologies are accepted, Ser Alister, but we've still no need of an escort. We shall simply work the Corpse Brigade to carry their man."

"I must insist. To make amends for my ill-mannered-haste earlier."

"And I must decline again. But I shall, for true on the name of the High Father himself, bring tale of your most sincere insistence to the High Confessor and Grand Master himself."

The barking dog squeaked and hid. "Nay, my actions do not deserve to reach the ears of His Holiness nor Lord Tengille."

"I must insist." How he loved to turn their words back! "The concern you've showed towards safeguarding Lord Tengille's children is to be commended." Trap set shut.

Color drained from the knight's face. Even his aides dawned in on horror. They were simple puppies who'd soiled master's favorite shoes and awaited the lash. "I.. that is..." Ser Alister stumbled out.

"We must be off," Cletienne motioned towards the door, "Be well, Ser Alister." The Templars and their prisoners left. Cletienne, with a smile on his lips at the affairs he'd just put in order.


	11. Chapter 10: Sword in Hand

**Chapter 10: Sword in Hand...**

Their amalgamation of work drew the confused look of every Northern Sky knight they passed on the way, and certainly did Cletienne revel in why. Two Templars carrying a man shielded in white sheet, three men and a woman carrying a fifth, and two Templars with their swords on said five others.

"I think we've made quite the impression on the Northern Sky," he cheerfully said.

"Not one I'd relish," said Meliadoul.

"What ever do you mean?"

"Do not play the fool with me, Ser Cletienne Duroi. You use our father's name for your own ends."

"Were my words not truth?"

She sent a scowl his way. "We do not train our blades solely to hide behind our name should it prove convenient."

A lip of laughter tore from the Corpse Brigade ranks. "What wondrous farce this is, we shepherd man on back while you bemoan the use of your name. Nobles are all disgusting, serving god or no."

"Why," Cletienne sent a smile back, "I do believe the Northern Sky would have your head by now."

"Gariland, Mullonde or Gaillione—little matter to us where out heads roll."

"You would not believe we mean to keep your heads attached then."

"Rot us away in gaol? Or run us through with lance instead? Either option be done with whatever our fate and spare us your false promises of clemency beforehand. I'd sooner believe Saint Ajora a Lucavi than we see a week's worth of sunrises."

He sighed. Little to be gained in arguing with Dead Men, less so with Corpse Brigade and none with those resolved to die. But fair warning would be offered. "Do not lend weight to thought of running. Our exchanges make it clear enough how futile such would be."

"What do you know of futile you privileged brat? Did you fight in Zelmonian muck and face a hundred men with a dozen truesworn companions? Or did you sit home, warm and safe, as men of Ivalice died in foreign lands all so one man could call himself King of two lands?"

"Were the Dead Men not volunteers?"

"And we fought the same as every able-bodied knight we saw. But they receive coin because their capes were clean while we banded with moth-bitten cotton. When we make plain our discontent we are suddenly the villains, to be put down like Ordallian dogs." The thief's mouth ran aquiver with rage. "When men of the right birth swing their swords 'tis for 'good and just cause' no matter how many fall bloody beneath those blades. I saw Eastern Sky knight toss infants a-score to a mighty blaze and after war's end he holds in a manse with three-score servants. Tell me Templar, where the Gods' love is for children crying for fathers and mothers put to death for holding pitchforks?"

The lies this one would spin! The thief cared none true for Ordallian sons, but such scorn and bitterness in his voice was a venom most useful to be poised at the Queen's limbs.

"You speak more bitter than you are," Cletienne accused them. "You could have cut it all and ran, yet you wear your colors and carry your fellow's burden still."

The thief coughed out a laugh. "You have not seen the depths of my bitterness, Templar. I will show you such when I am clad in Mullonde's guillotine."

Defiant to the end. This man would be an excellent addition to the High Confessor's plans. For now, Cletienne prepared himself for Ramza's stop. "But not so defiant as to make the stand at Ziekden Fortress. Save the one of you."

Ramza did stop short, and prepared as he was, Cletienne did as well. Delita did not fall. Their whole convoy halted, as the Corpse Brigade's anger flared.

"'Twas obvious to see, where else but the Fort's burning would such wounds come? While he fought, the lot of you ran. Luck blesses cowards it seems, for you to find your compatriot's body smoldering in snow."

"We fought to the end!" the thief screamed. "Not even Zalbaag Beoulve would doubt our courage."

More the like to lament their idiocy. Now the time to strike... "So, Wiegraf Folles yet lives, does he?"

Bolt-stricken did his Templars look; a wash of fear and loathing across Corpse faces. "Ha! You think we tell you his fate? Scour high and low for a man neither confirmed living or dead. Waste gil enough to feed a family a year for the smallest ember of rebellion."

"How much would your swords fetch?" he posed the question. "A thousand gil? Abandon them, strip armor and you would yet have enough to last a year as well."

"Lay down our arms and die when some noble comes seeking bloodsport."

"Better raise and die." Yes, this man would be most useful indeed. The Cardinal would delight at having such a man at his beck and call. "And it has led you naught."

"Bah," the thief spat. "I tire of these games. I would sooner my ears be split than listen to your circuitous drivel anymore."

"So be it."

Their march continued without incident. Any time it seemed the Corpse Brigade might dare slip away, Meliadoul or Isilud had it covered. Though it took well into sun's set for them to reach the port, they arrived before sun dipped below horizon.

They oversaw transfer of the prisoners up and into the ship's brig, before bringing Delita to the ship's sickbay. As much as it was the better condition, the ship's surgeon and his room smelled of brimstone and it forced excuse from the Tengilles.

Laid to rest, Ramza took seat by his friend's side.

Ship lurched, and another voyage was underway.

"I suppose reminding you that he'll receive the best care short of the King himself will do little to comfort you, still, if by the slightest sliver of a chance may his life be saved it will be because you found him."

The Beoulve drew no comfort and barely offer a grunt response.

So be it. Let manners die for no reason! Cletienne turned towards the surgeon, the only man on-board who didn't have eyes darkened by working a full-day's hours in shifts getting the ship sailing. "Take care of them both."

"'Tis my job."

He left the station, brimstone replaced by the salty air of the sea. Tengilles on deck, hurriedly gossiping over their first victory. Armor already peeled aside, they learned quickly, as one would expect from the Grand Master's scions.

"Revel in it," he said as he approached them, drawing their attention quick. "Take pride in any victory but especially this one. Rare a fight without dead on the ground."

"We'll be ready for when that happens," said Meliadoul. "I have honed my arts to a sheen in anticipation."

"And well we needed them," said Isilud. "Ramza's plan was well, but still not absolute."

"Let this be a lesson: You can never plan for everything. Isilud, you were correct with there being an additional man, but him being incapacitated was not known. Though the fault lies at my feet for that." Or the Northern Sky who said only "four".

They nodded. Meliadoul spoke. "As we bear witness to Ramza's friend accompanying us."

"I've never seen him more distraught," said Isilud. "Nor seen, and forgive me for this, a noble bemoan a commoner so such. Even, ahem, a bastard." He shifted at the uncomfortable truth.

"Has Loffrey and his diastase for 'sers' not already stricken such thoughts from you?"

"I near no claim of superiority over my birth, _Ser_ Cletienne!" Isilud did retaliate. "I simply speak truths, as you once did."

It was wonderful when they learned. Alfredo could teach swordplay 'til Saint Ajora returned but words were far from her forte. "It is said that Barbaneth Beoulve himself was a man—champion to the commons. As is his sword friend: Lord Cidolfus Orlandeau. If this Delita's friendship is as true as Barbaneth's and Cid's, it is small wonder he reacts as such regards of rank and title."

"You would compare a common man to a man called Thunder God?"

"I see a man who nearly magicked himself to death trying to aid a friend. Barbaneth once fought through three hundred men single-handily to break a path clear for Cid's forces to retreat. He is his father's son for any man he calls true friend."

"I think four men beyond him considering his need of us," Isilud wryly smiled. "Though I believe you exaggerate, I shall... keep an open mind on this."

"The Gods cannot love a closed heart." Even as they chaffed under Lord Father's name they still wore it with pride and station that needed to be humbled if they were to be Braves.

"Love?" said Meliadoul. "Mayhap love is when you care more for another than yourself."

Cletienne couldn't help a smile at such excellent words. "Love for commons, love for father and brother and sister. Is it not wonderful?" He threw his arms wide. "What more reason do we need that the Gods smile upon us?"

"It is not my place to say otherwise. But is it naught but common chance that the two were reunited? There were any number of churchs for him to lay, for you to pray, or for Corpse Brigade to stay."

He shook his head. "Are either of you aware, that every church is associated with the zodiac, as we people are?"

"I believe I've heard of this, yes."

"What then, would you say, was the sign of Saint Elmo?"

"I have naught an idea. Capricorn?"

"Gemini?" Isilud guessed.

"Correct, Isilud," Cletinne answered. Correct Tengille smiled; wrong Tengille did not flinch in disappointment. "Your signs, if I recall. Latter mine as well."

"So," said Meliadoul, "you pray at churchs bearing your sign?"

More than that. He clutched hand to chest. They would learn no matter the course. None around them so much glanced in their direction, and under fading light he pulled it out.

They gasped at its holy radiance. Amethyst in color, formed of two diamond shapes wedged together along their flats and bearing the inscription of "Gemini" on its middle.

"By the Gods..." Meliadoul gasped. "A Zodiac Stone?"

"I thought the Cardinal's Scorpio the only one remained in Church possession?" Isilud asked, as he, too, stared in awe.

"'Til I arrived 'twas so. I spoke of mother devout, so when I first laid my eyes upon this stone seven years' past I gazed the same as you now."

Their faces ran flush with new pride at the holy auracite of the Gods before them. "Are there any others?"

"Loffrey bears Capricorn, though the whys and hows of it I am not privy too. All Templars know the Cardinal's stone, but not the specifics of its acquisition in Zeltennia. But alas, the other nine remain lost to us." He returned gem to its resting place in tabard. Their eyes lost their light at it, but remained focused. "A Gemini bearing Gemini in a Gemini Church? I do not believe in coincidences when I have Gods' artefact in my pocket."

"Whence did you find it?" Isilud asked, so eager to hear. "Was it that Church?"

Cletienne shook his head. "During my short tenure at the Akademy for the Magick Arts I investigated the works of Elidibus."

"The famed mage of the Fifty Years' War?" asked Meliadoul. "The one that vanished without trace?

"The very same. His theories and tomes had been raided many times over the years, but when I searched through his works I discovered something. A secret hall bearing his deepest mysteries and secrets, and among them: Gemini."

It struck an odd chord with Meliadoul, and the elder Tengille grimaced. "Did Lord Father have a hand in his disappearance?" Isilud snapped his face towards her, but said nothing.

"It is Church degree that all artefacts of Saint Ajora's life be found and returned to the Church if retrieved. But the Fifty Years' War begat many men never found and secrets never uncovered. The Western Sky's disappearance, the fires at the salt flats, the strange lights of Nelveska Temple. History flows with mysterious events we cannot feign imagine. What remains of the Holy Empire of Ydora underneath the Black Coral Sea? Does the line of the Hero-King Mesa still flow? Does Serpentarius exist?" Ah, his excitement was boiling over but he did not care! Let caution be swept away in sea breezes and night falling upon them! "Where men of the crown concern themselves with the knight across the border who should be his brother, we solve the great mysteries of history. I hold a very piece of fact that Saint Ajora lived."

His exuberance was only shared in part by the Tengilles, but at least it wasn't Northern Sky Knights falling to their knees in laughter fueled by ignorance.

"I don't think I shall ever share such passions, Cletienne," said Meliadoul, who smiled. "I simply see the happiness plain upon your face, and I am glad for that."

Such a kindness she did share with her father. How he worried so when he brought Gemini before the Knights Templar, abandoning his own father's concerns to do so. Now though, a Templars's mantle rested upon him, and soon enough a Brave's title.

"That is enough excitement for all, for any day, come, let us rest and awaken to home."

"Do you think Ramza will join us for training, tomorrow?" Isilud asked his sister.

"I do not think even Alfredo can tear him from Delita's side."


	12. Chapter 11: To Future Days

**Chapter 11: To Future Days**

The voyage of the _Truth and Reconciliation_ towards Mullonde once more would not be with the swiftness of its earlier travels. The crew had worked ragged to keep the vessel sailing with and against all the directions the wind would blow. Now they slept and rested as they were able, only one sailor in ten remained awake.

The guests on board slowly drifted towards sleep and dream's promise as well. The Tengilles, though exuberant on day's action, took to sleep the second their heads met pillow. The Corpse Brigade, after attempting to escape their confinements, grumbled and bedded with the linens that barely passed for clothes anymore. Cletienne, well past a day's time awake, remained on deck for some time, but eventually retired after convincing himself how best to let Lord Folmarv hear the news.

Ramza kept by Delita's side through every turn of the ship, and every wave that crashed against the hull. In defiance of the doctor's orders, he sat vigilant for any sign that his friend might return. Even as the doctor retired for the night, Ramza remained.

* * *

Midday's sun sat in sky as the _Truth and Reconciliation_ finally made way into Mullonde's port. The crew sung relief at being able to put feet up on dry land once again. No longer bound by the fervorous pace of a Templarate officer.

Prisoners, still shackled, were marshaled down the ramp. All the ferocity they fought with earlier gone by another day without meal in their bellies.

Ramza, refusing aid from anyone else, brought Delita down after.

Lastly did the Knights Templars still on their feet with ease descend. Eyes wary on keeping their fellow from toppling into the sea, or worse.

"Does he know where the recovery room is?" Cletienne asked.

"Doesn't everyone who clashed with Alfredo?" Meliadoul wryly answered.

"Here I expected a thrilling tale of how he bested her in a legendary bout of skill the likes the world had never borne witness too before."

"She clubbed him about his head and he nearly died."

"I would state that is a yes, in a very long stretch of disbelief." He frowned at the idea of nearly losing a Beoulve over a mere training exercise. Did her grudge against Zalbaag extend that far? Oh, the fury Lord Folmarv must have rained upon her head for that! Ah, if only he could have been there.

Now she would surely be there when Lord Folmarv unleashed wroth upon his head for dragging that Delita fellow here. It was an unknown in their plans that could scare afford a dangerous ripple. But if this brought Ramza closer to the Gods, it would be worth it.

The sailors far ahead broke away, returning to their dock front barracks while a small section continued to escort the Corpse Brigade.

Thunder shook the area upon approach to the Templar barracks. Corpse Brigade flinched, prepared to be cut down without mercy. Razma staggered, nigh dropping his friend, but Meliadoul's quick support saw them steady.

"What is that?" the Beoulve asked. "A Black Mage's sound but no lightning with it?"

"You'll learn soon enough," answered Cletienne. Though for certain he would not like the answer.

"I shall not, I have Delita to care for."

"And yourself. You cannot stay by his side lest you intend to be as infirm as he."

"I will do what I must," he said, and broke from Meliadoul's aid to continue onward.

The girl shook her hooded head at his obstinate refusal. "He shall push himself closer to death than when Alfredo's sword struck him if he continues with this."

"Then we pray for Delita's swift recovery," said Isilud.

Agreed by all. But matters had their lie of importance and they must attend to them. "Come, let us see how Alfredo humiliates Barich this time."

"It is not my fancy to see an ally broken low," said Meliadoul.

"'Tis mine!" Isilud went the other way. "Always is it 'noble this' and 'noble that' with him. 'Tis tiresome."

"Tiresome, yes, but he is true in his convictions and our cause."

"Does not mean I must like the man."

"Few do," Cletienne added in. "Which only fuels his fires ever hotter."

"So treat him as the nobles he does despise?"

He turned smile towards Isilud. "What then, do you believe we intend with Corpse Brigade? Have them bound eternally in shackle? Nay, they will find their place in the world. And with words of kindness and support shall we lead them to."

"For moral men to let immoral men among them..." Isilud shook his head. "Any hand I outreach shall be spurned by him—them. To say naught of what awaits Ramza when Beoulve is named." He looked at his hands. "Though I chose this life, so I cannot complain."

As much as one chooses the station they were born. "To the training court then?"

No more objections were raised. The Corpse Brigade dragged to their cells once inside; Ramza and Delita to the healers section of the barracks.

Thunder's sound bolted the building thrice more before they reached the source. A dozen red-caped templars stood watching the excitement before their eyes.

Alfredo, Training Master in her orange tabard, sword gripped loosely, shield barely hanging on, in opposition to Barich Fendsor. Knights Templar officer, clad in midnight-black tabard and hoisting another deviation of the guns the machinist templar was so fond of. For once in their confrontations, it seemed the weary and worked man had the advantage.

Thunder broke from his gun's bullet. Alfredo brought shield to bear—bullet crushed through, throwing her into a shield rack nearby. Ice then struck.

"A magick gun..." said Cletienne. The man had forged a magick gun from before the Cataclysm! Bemoaning aside, his skills with machines were without peer.

"Any further and you'll die," said Barich. Sweeping his shoulder-length brown hair back. "Admit defeat you stubborn fool."

"Defeat?" Alfredo peeled the broken slag of shield metal from her arm. "From a man who's never held a sword in his life?"

"That is what I despise about you," he glared at her with his narrow brown eyes. "The sword is to you what nobility is to the rest of Ivalice. A rotted and pointless adage best cut out."

Alfredo pulled another shielded from the pile around her: mythril, inscribed blue and gemmed. "You speak of cutting without a surgeon's hands or knight's discipline."

Barich leveled the gun towards his parlay foe once again. The only one who thought him capable of victory. "As if a knight's hands could harvest a farmer's grain or work the machines of Goug." His finger pulled the trigger and another roar of thunder proceeded the bullet fired.

Smirk caressed Alfredo's face as shield absorbed the shot. Bullet and spell as her wounds recovered.

"What!?"

Barich's last word before Alfredo was swinging sword in face and put the man to ground.

"Among the many lessons in a knight's discipline, is being quite aware that an ice shield protects one from frigid attacks." The pale blue shield at her side gleamed in the light of victory.

"You will not always be that lucky."

"And you will not always have peace and mind to reload. Or can only a machinist see that, hm?" Her taunts accompanied by a superior smile.

Barich swept her sword away. "Do not speak down to me, you antiquated sow. Guns shall replace swords and spears and it is I who shall be teaching you then."

"I highly suspect I shall still be teaching you, if your performance today is any indication." She stepped aside. "Go enlist a healer, if at least for your wounded pride."

The trio returned from Gariland exchanged worried glances at that.

"You do not give orders to me," he said and stood himself up.

Alfredo let out a sigh at his pointless refusal. "Very well. Go with the grace of the Gods, Barich."

He wordlessly left, but his red face told all what he meant.

As did Alfredo's collapse once he left sight. Equipment that redirected a magick's energies towards healing did not do so with the precision of a white mage's spells. She'd recovered enough for her charge, but not enough to continue her fight.

Swarmed then, she was, by the white mages in audience and recovered thus.

"Shall we delay your Lord Father's fury and congratulate her victory?" Cletienne offered them.

"And suffer hers instead?" said Isilud. "My ears shall be red enough—no thank you."

One down. "Meliadoul?"

"We will hear of this for month to come, let us delay that as long as possible."

If both were in agreement then. "Then let us inform your Lord Father of our many victories!" He played chipper as best he could in contrast to their dour acceptance.

Which was certainly the case for their plodding pace along the halls to their Lord Father's office. A number of templars they passed were clear swollen with midday meal and mirth. Cletienne verged on halting their doom for a lunch's break, but he'd sooner face a Lucavi than tell the Grand Master they'd considered lunch more important then him.

Though that would certainly be a sight.

Upon arrival, and before even knocking did Lord Folmarv's voice beckon: "Enter."

Nervous guises shared among them, they delayed no longer and entered.

There was no shouts yet, simply Lord Folmarv waiting behind his wooden desk covered in papers as always. It always baffled Cletienne how much paperwork went with managing the Order. He himself only gave oral reports, and save a scant few, any he spoke with said the same. The handful of templars who did give paper reports could not account for the sheer volume before him.

"The boy Beoulve retrieved," said Lord Folmarv without taking eyes away from whatever document was before him. "Why?"

"Delita Herial, my lord," answered Meliadoul. "His, friend, thought lost at Ziekden Fortress."

"Why is he here?"

"Ramza was most adamant about not leaving him."

"You are three; he is one." Lord Folmarv dropped his papers and stared at them. The black of his eyes as cutting as diamond. "He is here, because you saw fit not to stop him." He stood from his seat, glaring. "We tread dangerous waters with the Corpse Brigade, and only by His Holiness' grace were we let take custody of them. So why then, do you spit upon his kindness and seek not his permission to bring another to Mullonde. Where then, is the man who dares not come even when summoned?"

"You see our dilemma then, my lord," said Cletienne. "If he heeds not the High Confessor or Grand Master, what action could we undertake to convince him? None."

He slammed his hands on the table, disturbing men and paper. "Do not play the fool with me Cletienne Duroi," he slammed his desk, "a dozen words from your lips and he'd be still 'til week's end."

He was not that skilled with the magick arts, though he appreciated such confidence in him.

"Lord Fa—Lord, my lord," Isilud confused himself. "I do not see the problem with Ramza's act. He acts for a friend's sake, and brings him for treatment on the isle. How is that wrong?"

"'Tis not!" Lord Folmarv roared at them. "But acting without orders and taking advantage of others is. You force their hand rather than ask assistance."

It was a step on the long road to being an abusive noble. A small one, certain, but even enough bits of cheap iron became the price of the finest steel in enough bulk. This reprimand was necessary.

For them, of course.

"Do not think you are separate from this, Cletienne," said Lord Folmarv. "Believing yourself above influence is the surest path to falling to it."

Two words. A flicker of thought, shadows at the end of his mind, blinked away. He would not give it satisfaction.

"Your punishment will be levied tomorrow. Dismissed."

The Tengilles were confused, for all Cletienne had described, and for all their own experiences, this was a far cry from their Lord Father's harshest words.

"Cletienne, stay."

Then came the dawning realization that it was all saved for the commanding officer.

So they fled with unbridled haste.

"Well," he looked as sorry as possible, "this seems a mite unfair."

"They are young and must make mistakes, you are not. Letting Beoulve bring his friend here could put everything in jeopardy."

"I thought it simply reinforce his resolve."

"We do not know his allegiances, his goals. And Ramza shows more loyalty for him than us. A month—two perhaps, and his arrival would change naught. But we are at a critical point of his allegiances and you give him another path."

"And open another," said Cletienne. "Engender the friend's loyalty and you earn both beyond shadow's doubt."

Lord Folmarv's frown deepened. "This is not the time for such risks."

Best keep revealing Gemini a secret then.

"The crown lays atop the corpses of a dozen chamberlains slain by Louveria's orders and certain soon a princess'. If Dycedarg moves before the boy awakes, what shall become of the Beoulve? His uselessness would peak!"

"There is always your son."

"That is not his role."

What fatherly affection.

Lord Folmarv returned to seat before continuing. "Our influence with Dycedarg shall wane once news reaches of our interference with the Corpse Brigade. Claudino has found it difficult enough to keep the man's words friendly with little done to antagonize him."

"We knew the risk of this."

"Has it paid, then?"

He nodded. "I do believe they know enough of Wiegraf Folles to aid our search."

"Begin working them at once then. And send them to Baert whence finished."

Baert Trading Company. A useful band of thugs operating in Lionel under Church's shadowed hand. "Yes, my lord." Keeping them fat and happy would convince Beoulve and Folles both of the Church's honest intentions. "If Folles and Beoulve cross swords, and they will, whom do we support?"

"We shall see."


	13. Chapter 12: The Woken Wroth

**Chapter 12: The Woken Wroth**

 _"Delita! Delita!"_

He awoke.

It was soft.

It hurt.

His body ached.

Ached more than the first time he knew pain. Aflame with agony from skin to bone.

His heart ached.

More than the first time he lost love.

The breaths he drew were shallow—did not sucker air as they should. His lungs gaped for more and more.

His throat stung rough. Sandpaper that tore raw all the bites of life he could muster.

His eyes would not open.

No, they were covered. An unassailable blackness.

He reached, under sheet, cloth on body.

He could not move as every fiber of his being reveled. All breaths took lurched out with a half-gargled scream and gasp and spit. Bile included too, if his stomach did not crave and rumble for food in a manner he'd only hazily recalled from his parents' death. All his food he'd given to Tietra—

 _TIETRA_!

His hands scrambled and clawed even against the agony piling at every motion. They found purchase with whatever cloth covered his eyes and he tore at it.

A door opened—plates crashed to floor and a woman said, "No! You can't remove it! You'll damage your eyes!" Her smooth hands gripped his and pulled him away. He thrashed, powerless to stop whatever noble servant this was.

"T—" the single letter caught in his throat and struck chord. "Tie—" he could not even say her name! "Tie—"

"Easy, easy, you haven't used your voice, body, brain for some time. Calm down and rest."

No! Not while she!

Not while she...

Not while she...

She was dead.

Oh Gods she was dead! Dead dead dead!

Everything he was, was gone. Whatever struggles remained in his body ceased and the woman laid him back down.

This was certainly not Paradise, or Tietra would be leading parents to him already.

Certainly was it hell.

"Alright, okay..." The woman separated from him, for whatever good it did. "I'm going to get some water for you. I'll be right back. Whatever you do, don't remove your head-wrap. If you take in too much light too fast you'll blind yourself permanently.

What light was there in a world without Tietra?

She scrapped whatever slop she dropped and her footsteps faded into distance. Never leaving... but it was all he could do besides think.

And thinking was painful.

He gripped his hands—her pendent! Where was it!? He clawed around the sheets, at his body, but there was nothing. Whoever robbed him of his armor had taken his sister's necklace as well!

Nobles: thieves one and all!

The light footsteps of his caregiver returned. "I believe I told you to stop struggling," she said.

He did not, even as she approached again and laid what sounded to be a tray on a nearby desk. "Drink." Her hands reached his shoulders but he shook them off. "If you wish to speak sometime this month, you need fluids."

Speak naught but curses against traitors! Those who would cast noble name before commons life!

When her hands embraced him, he did not fidget. She held him to a sitting position with remarkably firm strength; even as every muscle in his body continued to cry agony at movement in any capacity.

She dropped one hand—he did not move—and soon after a glass touched his lips. "It's water, drink it slow."

The glass was tipped forward, and a trickle of water began to flow into his mouth. A tears stream equal, no more.

That was still too much and a fanciful tickle in his throat had him splattering and coughing into the glass.

"Easy, easy," she little tapped on his back as one wound an infant. "Recovery is slow, but you'll get the hang of it."

They repeated the exercise—and failure several times. At one point she even left the room to retrieve another pitcher of water. Slowly though, he consumed the drink. By the fifteenth glass, did he finally take it all in.

"There, there, that's a good job," relief flooded from her voice. "How's your throat? Can you speak?"

He swallowed to clear his throat. "Tiet—" a bubble burst and he spammed for air. "Tietra!" he gasped out through all his breaths. Haggard, and dull, his voice did not sound right to his ears.

"Your sister, I am told."

"Who?" another single word before his body struck him infirm.

"A friend. Do you know if she lives?"

Friend? He had no friends. He braced himself for his word. "Dead." His throat choked away, but he kept it together as well he could.

"My condolences," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder yet again. "He held out hope that with you surviving, she might have as well."

There was only one answer. "Where?"

"He'll be here soon enough."

The last person he wanted to see.

Bitter irony that he could not see.

"He's been here every day, if you didn't hear in your sleep. Praying for you, for your sister."

His last words were threatening him next.

"He carried you here on his back over everyone's objections."

Dragged him right back into the fiend's den. All the closer to swing sword at treacherous hides.

"Get your strength back," she eased unto his back once more "I'm going to depart for a moment to inform the priestess you've waken. She's a great deal more experience in matters such as yours than I."

Her warms hands left him.

The cold of the Fort still lingered in his flesh.

That his body did burn through it all...

There was naught left to think of but recovery and vengeance.

Would he come, then? A mewling pup of his brothers still? Forge a cycle of hatred?

Or was this but long-planned trap. Treat well, recover, and strike together?

He would learn soon.

A parade of steps broke his thoughts, one metal striking stone. But one man would that be.

Slap against stone, breath heavy, familiar voice cried out:

"Delita!"


	14. Chapter 13: The World That Stayed

**Chapter 13: The World That Stayed the Same**

"Ramza..." he whispered out his name. A speck of noise that would be consumed as nothing if there was but a single other sound.

"I'm here, Delita." Ramza's sabatons scrapped against the floor and drew closer. His hand reached beneath the sheets.

Warm, rough and calloused like always. But stronger now. Concern or ignorance the grip he gave was ironclad. Not enough to be painful, but he could tell, while Delita wasted away in bed, Ramza had grown stronger of arm. No doubt fleeter of foot and swifter of mind as well!

Even these conditions showed the divide of common and noble. Even noble bastard.

"That's enough hand holding," a scratchy woman's voice intruded. Ramza's hands were pried away after a short shuffle of robes. "You've done enough these months boy; let us care for him now."

What...?

"Very well," said Ramza and his footsteps moved away. "Get better soon, Delita."

He left, just like that.

Before Delita could say another word, new hands took to his body. They felt odd and leathery, the vague memory of grandmother's blinking through his mind. Her fingers darted around his skin, slightly colder than his own. The pain welled up wherever she touched, and he sputtered out when his joints were invaded.

"Feels like your nerves are still working. But we won't know for certain 'til you get back on your feet. Even the worst burn spots appear naught permanent. Count your luck boy."

There was no fortune in this! However long he remained was a day too many! "Months...?"

"Two, since your arrival. It's 27 Gemini now."

It was 22 Aries when they laid siege the Fort! By the Gods, he'd laid infirm a sixth of the year! Two months gone without proper burial for Tietra. Two months festering in Eagrosse while Ramza grew fitter. Two months justice went unabated and traitors ran free!

"Rest now, drink. We'll get you settled and ready rehabilitation tomorrow."

"Now." He struggled up, even as his muscles barely allowed him. "Now!" he shouted as well he could. A child's plea falling on uncaring ears. "Now." His body gave way back in soft mattress. "Now..." Wasteful tears soaked his mask...

"Yes," she harped, "yes, we'll let you crawl on your elbows and knees around these halls. Let you blind yourself. You are certainly the most accomplished physician in the room. What would I know, I only served all fifty years in the war."

There was no such person at the Beoulve Manse... "Whom...?"

"Ward Priestess Cwengyth." A completely unfamiliar name. "Your nurse is Casey; you should remember your friend, Ramza."

Had he convinced his villainous brothers to get a new white mage for him? What about Gylda? Or Deitrich?

"How...?"

"Long?" She hummed at the thought. "We'll see, with the Gods favor you'll be walking in two weeks time."

"Slow."

"Slow?" she squawked at him. "Boy, there is no name in any book that will say they've gone as many days as you without food. Starving armies in the Fifty Years' War surrendered after seven days, let alone two months. That you're even alive is a miracle of the Gods and the watchful eye of your friend."

Foul then, he was here by friend's brothers orders.

"He's been here every lunch after morning training. Every dinner after magick training. First light, last light. I've seen lovers less concerned with their other's well-being ser."

To think his last words towards him were a threat.

"He broke from Alfredo's training to see you."

Another name unfamiliar to him. Had the Corpse Brigade's assassination attempt dealt such significant casualties to the Northern Sky?

If only they'd succeeded.

"We'll start with readying your eyes by filtered moonlight at sundown. You've naught been a prisoner in lightless halls for a year, but two months is enough time for your vision to be unaccustomed to lights. We'll ease your body back, as one would do before physical activity."

There was naught he could do to reject. "Yes."

"Casey shall be within a yell's range." She paused. "Or closer, yes." She withdrew from his bedside. "If you feel any changes, speak at once."

He repeated himself, and her footsteps, muffled by cloth left soon after.

Casey, or he presumed as she had not spoken yet, remained nearby. Settling some wooden scratches that would belong to a chair.

There was nothing he would speak of, more so in his current condition of one word at a time. Save all his strength for Ramza, recovery, revenge.

Time passed. A hundred heartbeats, two, three and more 'til his counting gave way in annoyance. Turned towards the steps of battle. Squire arts, archery forms. Tactics and stratagems to peel noble hide.

He asked for water, drank it when offered. Kept it down.

If any hint of his akademy training remained he awoke at light's dawn. Had it been a day yet? Half? This helpless restlessness... Was this what Lord Barbaneth felt, on his own deathbed? Body wracked by unfeeling disease. Naught but mind's excessive to keep from descending to madness?

But he could speak more than a word. Even as life faded from him, he struck terror into Ordallia's armies with mind alone.

Where only a hint of that nobility present in his eldest spawn. All the honor their lord father held dear dying with Tietra.

If only—if only Lord Barbaneth had survived! There would be no Corpse Brigade, no painful reparations from Ordallia. He would not tolerate such vile acts that Dycedarg and Zalbaag did without thought and consequence.

There was no use dreaming of such world. Nor praying there was answer in Beoulve ever again. Try as Ramza might, he was not his lord father.

No, if he wanted a world without victims like Tietra, he'd need to make it with his own hands. Strangle nobles who strangled commons. No more!

His hands clenched—meager, pathetic, all the power he held could not even slightly harm his palms. He would get power. He would recover and break Dycedarg and Zalbaag!

He would savor and seethe and bare false smile towards them while hiding dagger behind back. Nay, bolt. Let them feel the same kiss of death they'd ordered Tietra felled with.

He would have his vengeance.

Thoughts of such sustained him. At midday she broke for lunch. But Ramza did not come.

Her return explained why. The Alfredo instructor kept him behind for breaking early.

He wondered why Ramza was undergoing training again. They had matched sword with Wiegraf Folles.

But it was for him. Ramza would not act as Northern knight while any chance remained unknown when he would awaken.

What then of Fulke, Stone, Gylda, Maragrete, Deitirch and Pelinne? Where they set about as knights? Or did the traitor's fate await them?

Questions he would have answered to soon.

Evening meal came, as Casey left and returned. Water for him again.

Metal struck stone.

Ramza arrived.

Breath thrice heavier than before, he said. "I'm so glad you're awake."

"Ramza..."

"My apologies, I should have braved the flames and reached you, and Tietra. This never should have happened."

It should not have. But this ugly world was what he had to deal with now. "Tell." He could not even choke out an "all" to end that.

But his friend understood, and only a moment's hesitation passed before he said, "Very well."

He started at the beginning, as most story's did. With Gylda, Fulke and everyone dragging him kicking and screaming to Gariland. His encounter with the High Confessor! His separation. His anointment as a Knights Templar.

Delita near choked on his throat at the news. They were on Mullonde, of all places?

His new training under the Templarate officer Alfredo, in tandem with the Grand Master's children. Breaking old-found ways to learn the deeper depths of sword arts.

Their deployment to Gariland to safeguard church against Corpse Brigade.

Finding him. Laid bare in bed. Against superior's orders he dragged him back.

Two months of piety and after. Every day did he come by and imbue Delita's unconscious body with all the white magicks and chakras he could. Sword in morning; spell in afternoon. Finding him had redoubled his efforts. His voice twinged with devotion, the same once reserved for his Lord Father and brothers.

But they'd seen how swiftly admiration could turn to disgust. Delita did not trust the church any more than any man who claimed nobility. He would tell Ramza of this.

Ramza went into details, then. Of the mighty dame Meliadoul, her energetic brother Isilud. Their stern but righteous father, the Grand Master Folmarv. Cletienne who taught spells of power to Ramza. Alfredo who did not bow to Beoulve name on the field as their instructors once did. The equal-speech of a man called Loffrey. Even the brusqueness of Barich.

A cold shiver ran through Delita's spine at the warmth of Ramza's words. Friends and master replaced in two months time. The latter by any good mind, but to leave their akademy-mates like this did not sit well. The Templars should have offered pardons for them as well. Not let their fates run undecided on chance the Northern Sky sought Beoulve more.

He would have words, once words were his.

The pace lowered, becoming more of little things. How Ramza had learned curaga, bolta and other middle-line black magicks. Protect, shell and regen from white's discipline and fancy words of an orator to never repeat his mistake in Gariland, or Fort Zeikden. He spread himself to every corner of competency he could while waiting on Delita's recovery.

When his hands were fit to swing sword again, Delita would be hard-pressed to match him. Even if he put all his heart into training, there was no surpassing a Beoulve devoted to skill. Things he, or any other at the akademy, found difficult came as natural as breathing to Ramza. Gylda had focused intently on her white magicks and Ramza was now her equal. Fulke had spent every waking moment as a knight, and Ramza surpassed him and learned the monk's arts on the side.

The world was unfair and painful.

But Delita would need every unfair advantage possible if he—they were to ruin the elder Beoulves.

"Revenge." The longest word yet from his lips.

Ramza clasped in his hands around his. "Justice, Delita. We'll see justice done. We'll drag their lies and pride through the mud."

Ever softhearted he was. This was a righteous killing. Not besmirching Beoulve pride!

But such could wait for real words, outside one's head.

"Rest well, Delita," said Ramza. He broke his grip, stood up. "I will see you in the morning."

Hopefully, by then, he could see again.

Ramza left. Exchanging words with Casey before his metal steps faded away. The nurse came by, exchanging water and keeping his comfort.

Time came for his blinding mask to be removed. To darkness, with a hint of shape nearby. No light broke in whatever room he had, windows shut or none at all he could not tell.

Slowly did some sense of focus come into being. There was no detail, nor sharpness in what he saw. Black on black, but the hints of movement were there. Her, first, then the bed and his own struggles. A slight twitch of a light beyond closed door—so soft to be a trick.

Form turned to outline, turned to awareness. Her hands, once undefined blobs, became fist and fingers. Two, she held out, and he spoke as such. Four, five one and three, they did run.

"Good, good," she encouraged him. "This is new for me as well, so we're both learning, hm?"

Far from encouraging, that!

Little choice did he have, and continued her works. Color never reached him, but the shape of the room, length of the bed, and the table with tray nearby became visible. As did the division between robe and maiden's skin.

That was it. After another hundred heartbeats there was no improvement. Even as she spoke plans for tomorrow, he scare paid attention. He would get his eyesight back, his legs and swordarm. He would learn all the Templars could tech and tear down those who wronged him.

This world that stayed the same, would change by his hand.


	15. Chapter 14: Eagrose Intrigue

**Chapter 14: Eagrose Intrigue**

Loffrey Wodring sat patiently inside the waiting room of the Beoulve Manse of Eagrose. Lord Dycedarg Beoulve knew well the value in setting a meeting's time to earn every advantage at the negotiating table he could. Control time to assert power and dominance, keep the guest waiting to irritate and shorten patience. A person anxious to be done was easier to manipulate.

But a fast of ten days had not broken Loffrey's will. A few hours "late, on the most dire matters," as an assistant had spoken earlier, would not buckle his steel.

More so did it have an affect on his young aides. A year's past their knighting as full-Templar and yet they endured nothing but political busywork instead of passing the Gods' words.

Damaris, elder of the pair by a week's time, fiddled with the long locks of her blonde hair to pass the time, or straightened her white mage's robes. Such personal vanity would be frowned upon, were they not to meet a man who scrutinize any weakness.

Baldric, meanwhile, played no intent other than displeasure. His leather boots constantly tapped against the red carpeting beneath. His archer's eyes glanced around to every ornament or piece of furniture in the well-sized room, sizing each for the time and measure of distance to shoot precisely.

Claudino had cautioned him of this. 'Twould not be long before aggravated words slipped from lip and bickering ensued.

"Recall the patience of Saint Ajora as he spread his message. Not all who listened came at first, but came they all did."

"I've little in the mind of verses," Baldric all-too quickly responded. Such eagerness would well serve the Gods in other capacities. "When Lord Dycedarg wallows in drink behind closed door."

"He would not dare drink before a Templar!" Damaris rose to their host lord's defense. "He is Lord of this land, Baldric, he deserves respect."

"What respect does he offer us?" He leapt from padded chair. "Waiting and waiting each time he calls for us. I thought this time different, but why doth we give respect to a man who does not respect the messengers of the Gods?"

"A messenger only," said Loffery. "You speak as if you are the Gods' voice themselves and I will broke no disrespect from you."

Panic struck his boyish features. "I-I didn't mean..."

"Contemplate on your life. And its position."

Chastised, the young man fell wordlessly back into his chair. Damaris was thus all-too-quick in smiling as if she was superior.

"You smile at your fellow's suffering?"

His words slapped it away from her face, and she hid behind cowl.

It earned him silence enough.

The door inwards, opened, a Northern Sky squire stepping out. "You may enter."

Loffrey stood, motioning to his two aides as they followed him, and the squire, back inside.

The room inside was thrice in size, beset by aroma of a rich number of liquors that had seeped into the wooden furnishings arranged. Lord Dycedarg sat at the head of the table straight ahead, Lord Zalbaag to his left and an unfamiliar Order Knight on his right.

"Introducing, Ser Loffrey Wodring, Knights Templar of the Church of Glabados. His aides: Dame Damaris Dukat and Ser Baldric von Lichtenstein, also of the Knights Templar of the Church of Glabados."

Clear it was that Dycedarg was showing where his loyalties lie. They did not even see fit to rise at their entrance; though, clear as royal's glass, did it gnaw at Lord Zalbaag.

"Ser Loffrey, may I introduce you to His Lordship, Dycedarg Beoulve, His Lordship Knight Devout Zalbaag Beoulve and Ser Lezalas of House Rezar."

The squire bad them sit, and Loffrey acquested, as did his aides (Baldric left; Damaris right).

Lord Dycedarg glared at him, the same stoneface plotting intrigue the former lord commander of the Northern Sky always held. Every inch of the man was sculpted to appear in control. From his copper blonde hair curled and prepped, to his beard trimmed just enough to inform one that he no longer saw need of helmet. His black robes that did not bear a tint of lint, or the pearl-white collar of fur around his neck. He was a man who held himself to an impeccable standard of grooming and intelligence.

The face he would wear when he learned his bastard of a brother worked for the organization sitting cross the table.

Zalbaag meanwhile, bore clear his intention of the situation. Knight Devout and Ark Knight of the Church; the demeaning need of announcements and placing the Beoulve above the Gods soured him. A stark contrast compared to his elder sibling. As Lord Commander of the Order of the Northern Sky, his reddish-blonde hair struck low to his head, and the beard he let lie was meticulously short to allow any helm to rest. There were mars to his ash-gray cape and the black armor he wore. Small enough to be honor's badge rather disregard for appearance.

The Lezalas figure was naught half as intriguing as either Beoulve, save what his presence meant. Clad in the slightly blue armor and cape of the Northern Sky; face as unsuccessfully blank as he try, but irritation on face marked by anger's stretches. Honey-blonde hair slicked back like most knights.

"Thank you, for the audience this day, My Lord," Loffrey greeted the elder Beoulve, and likewise his aides followed.

"Let us save pleasantries for success," Dycedarg took the conversation's reins. "As you've saved explanation for Gariland for two months."

The Templars too, knew something of letting one wait for an answer. "A Church of Glabados was sacked by vagabonds. Our Templars did as they would."

"I am well aware," said Lord Dycedarg, who leaned in his chair and let the sunlight flowing through the windows behind him shadow his face. "As, am I well aware of the disgrace suffered by the Knights who assisted the Templars. They offered every word of cooperation and saw japes and insults as response."

"And their lives naught close to danger as we took all risk."

"Then, the greatest insult of all," he continued on, "taking prisoners belonging to the Northern Sky over the local sergeant's protests."

"Prisoners who rose swords against the Church."

"Who first raised sword against Gariland, Gallione the Northern Sky and the Crown itself." Dycedarg leaned forward, his guise changing to one of victory between shadow's moments. "I respect your claim, they have wronged you as well, but firstly did they lash against ours, four times over. By burden of crimes they shall belong to us."

Five Corpse Brigade survivors were useless. This was naught but political maneuvering for both to save face. "Those five souls shall be saved and offered salvation on Mullonde by the grace of Saint Ajora and the High Father."

"I shall not dicker over the fate of five men the High Confessor sees to save, 'tis not my place. But 'tis by our concession and grace did your Templars succeed, for naught could they surround and hold the Church of Saint Elmo with one man. Thanks to yours, for ridding us of their scourge, but more to be repaid, there is."

Zalbaag's face soured more at the demands his Lord Brother sought from the Church.

Though Loffrey was all-too fit to agree. "I shall hear your demands and deliver them to the High Confessor and Grand Master myself."

Dycedarg shook his head, but his superior smile did not so much as twitch from his thin lips. "Demands are too harsh a word. I simply beseech the High Confessor hasten to crown His Highness at his earliest convenience. For the good of Ivalice."

Clear the meaning was. In more ways than obvious. "His Majesty's—Gods rest his soul—funeral took much of the High Confessor."

"Go then with my best regards for his health as well."

"I shall. Word is that support from the Council of Nobles and Board of Chamberlains sways to His Highness." By way of Her Majesty's daggers striking in the dark and gil passed to the hands of dirty men. "Whence all resistance turns, will His Highness have our support."

"Duke Goltanna is a wise man. He shall realize where his loyalties should lie, I have confidence."

Double-talk and subtly. Dycedarg's words lay with poisons none else knew. "May we pray towards His Highness' safe crowning."

"Faram."

"Lord Dycedarg, speak plain if this is presumptuous, but I would beseech entrance to your Lord Father's grave."

Confusion struck all faces save the man addressed. "Presumptuous, yes, on what such grounds, may I ask?"

"Your Lord Father once saved my life during the Fifty Years' War. Never once could I repay him with a swordarm. So I ask, may I pray for his soul in Paradise?"

An ever-so-slight narrowing of the brown eyes of the man prelude an answer. "'Tis not oft we allow unfamiliar boots on sacred ground. Shall you be alone?"

"Nay, I intend my Templarate fellow to accompany."

"Barich, was it?" Dycedarg turned gaze to the other Beoulve. "What say you, Zalbaag?"

"If they would offer prayer for Lord Father's soul, I gladly welcome them, and ask to accompany."

"Nay," the elder Beoulve shook head. "You must make haste for Lesalia at once. Her Majesty's worries for the missing nobility will only be assuaged by your presence."

"An hour's half sooner arrival shall not make a difference, Lord Brother."

"It can and may. Did Lord Father's strike at Zroth not catch Ordallian footmen at their weakest? Was your defense against Romandan ships that sailed the straight not timed to sink them as their men donned armor to come ashore?"

Zalbaag stood from his seat. "I shall simply marshal my chocobo to the faster."

"Hold, Lord Zalbaag," Loffrey sought to placate the Ark Knight. "I shall carry your prays to your Lord Father with me. Let not some assassin's dagger catch a lord's back unawares if you may yet prevent it. Your Lord Father would want as such."

The lord commander attempted to keep a face of steel, but it fell to silk, as he relented. "Very well. I shall set foot to Lesalia at once."

"If there are no more matters?" None voiced concern (and half had not lent voice at all). "Then let us adjourn."

The arrayed forces departed through their ways. The Templarate back through the waiting room and Beoulve halls, and the Northern Sky by the balcony door that sat unopened behind their side.

The squire accompanied them, to lead watchful eye. Loffrey dismissed his new aides, to their bewilderment. But a stern look sent them back to the local church where they made home for now. The squire left not soon after, but his eyes remained all the same.

Leaving Beoulve home, Loffrey made path to the stables eastwards of manse doors. Barich stood, gruff and unpleasant as ever, more so with no other to ward him from the Beoulves nearby. The way they took faster.

Lord Zalbaag whipped his chocobo and set towards the wind without word.

"Shall we depart?" said Dycedarg, as expected. "I've much business myself and would pray this swift and sure."

He played along. "You wish to accompany, Lord Dycedarg?"

"I will not let any boots tread Lord Father's grave that I can not see myself. From the lowliest common to High Confessor to His Majesty."

"I will comply. Such honor do you give your Lord Father."

"Not half as he is do, come."

The Knights Templar saddled themselves upon chocobo, with Lord Dycedarg and his man Lezalas in front they road. Across Beoulve manse, westward and through forested path.

A gate soon barred their path, of black iron, a cemetery's gate. Lord Dycedarg unlatched it and soon did they ride again. The light blanketed by trees broke again as they passed stream, river and water uphill.

There, eternal vigilant overlooking waters west of Ivalice, did lay Barbaneth Beoulve's grave. Knight Gallant, by King Denamda IV's decree, last man knighted by the three swords of the royal family. Father of a savior, bane of Ordallia, equal of a man called Thunder God.

They knelt before the cross monument reaching skywards. "High Father Faram, may these words find their way to your ears. May your son Saint Ajora—seated at your right hand forever more guide us. May Barbaneth Beoulve's soul be continued everlasting peace, and may his watchful eye keep us safe. Faram."

"Faram."

Barich remained silent.

"Choosing Lord Father's grave as our meeting site," said Lord Dycedarg as they all rose. "Clever. What of him?"

"He has taken a vow of silence."

"So be it." Still then, his eyes abounded to every tree and shadow. Caution even before grave only he allowed access to. A frighteningly prepared man. He could not fault him so, when one moved in intrigue it was to be expected to be wary of another's invites.

Though far be it for the reasons Dycedarg assumed.

"He is your man?" asked Loffrey.

"The one to lead, yes. Have you the equipment required?"

"Nay, it has been more difficult than presumed to get Baron Grimms to part with Southern Sky livery."

"Mayhap if the Templarate is so slow I take matters into my own hands."

"Patience is your ally, in matters such as these."

"Do not preach to me anything other than the Gods' will Templar."

"Of course, my lord. But the particularities between Northern and Southern armors would not fool impartial eyes."

A stark laugh broke the Beoulve's grim guise. "Impartial is man asking to be bought."

"Why spend coin when unnecessary? We shall have a man inside the Blackrams within Cancer, I assure you."

"And livery by Leo? Virgo? Is half a year enough or shall we see a new year's Aries upon us first? His Grace does well to mediate Her Majesty's bloodlust but she sees enemies in every noble who does not sing her praises every waking hour. Goltanna may yet bring war to preserve his head from decorating Lesalia's walls without a fight."

Paranoia doubtless fueled by Dycedarg's own provocations. "All the better then. You shall be seen as the hero who brought order to chaos."

"You speak I should avoid coin yet spend lives?"

"If it comes to it."

" _If_." He accented the word so harshly it would have peeled ink from scroll. "Our act is swift and precise. Topple the most troublesome pieces and be done with it. Only the king need be captured to end a game of chess."

All the pieces went to the same box in the end. "The Crown has the blessing of the Gods, and we are their servant."

"'Twould be easier if all knew their place. You are dismissed."

"Faram." The Templars bowed before taking their leave.

Out of earshot, Loffrey whispered. "Well?"

"It is as presumed: Mossfungus. The mushrooms plant sprout all over the grave."

Gods thrice-damn the kinslaying villain. A thousand years in hells were not enough for him! "Enough to manipulate him to our ends then." Three great men taken by illness was two too many. Would they find the same mushrooms on King Denamda IV's grave as well?

"'Til his house ends." Barich cracked a wicked smile. "Mossfungus heralds the end of house's reign."

Loffrey gripped the Capricorn stone hidden within his doublet. He would see justice delivered for Barbaneth Beoulve.

* * *

 _Romandan bullets had cut a hundred men to twenty before a single volley of arrows could be loosed. Those that lived dove retreat into muck of nearby stream to avoid the fate of their fellows. The thunder of northern guns nearly silenced the screams of those they struck—and literally did they as they executed man upon the field of battle._

 _Twenty crawled in muck, their scraps of armor from highborn to low made equal in earth's colors._

 _A few men notched crossbows, knowing there would be no escape._

 _Three Romandans fell from bolts._

 _Fifteen Ivalicians died._

 _Loffrey, front among those that crawled, had rounded bend in stream. Cover enough now to take to run. Even as feet slipped in slush he kept._

 _Men died behind him._

 _Bullets flew past him._

 _One struck._

 _Air ripped from lungs as his leg shattered beneath him and he collided into soft earth—a hard something hit his head._

 _Amongst the pain, as he gripped his broken and bleeding leg he saw: a cerulean stone. Etched with capricorn—his sign and shaped like half a goat's head._

 _He squelched his scream in awe at the fortune of what he'd found: A Zodiac Stone!_

 _He gripped the gem tightly. This was a sign of the Gods! He was sure of it!_

 _Explosions moved the land and Loffrey spared glance behind. Pillars of holy judgement ravaged Romandan lines. Their guns shattered in hand, their retreats frozen by ice, their eyes blinded and lives taken._

 _Atop a chocobo more golden than any he'd ever seen strode the Knight Gallant: Barbaneth Beoulve._

 _A Knight sent from Heaven to save a Holy Stone._

 _The Lord Commander drove the mighty sword Durandal through a dozen Romandan hides and their armies broke into run. They could do naught against a man who would break their guns from further range than they shot and even less with his holy blade in their face._

 _Just as swiftly had the Knight Gallent arrived, he left. Moving to another battlefield to save more lives._

 _Loffrey gripped Capricorn tightly. The Gods had sent Lord Barbaneth to save him. He was certain of it. And certain he was, to repay this debt to them and the Knight Gallent._

* * *

"'Tis wise sire?" asked Lezalas once the Templars had left sight. "I do not trust in any holy man who puts hand in politics."

"Nor I," Dycedarg replied. "But we shall make use of each other, for now." But to trust solely in this plan. Nay, caution would be the word of today. "I do think it wise to make contingencies to the plan." In rare case, sometimes wiser to turn an enemy's piece than remove it.

"I am your ever-loyal man, sire."

To death, if need be. But there were such ways around that...


	16. Chapter 15: Nightblades

**Chapter 15: Nightblades**

The sun beat its light upon the stoneworks of Mullonde. In his gilded armor, Isilud Tengille sweltered from both sun and step. His feet struck paved roads as he kept pace as well he could with his new instructor. But Claudino Brais was a seasoned Nightblade and well ahead, as always.

As sweat fell from Isilud's brow, not a drop of perspiration exerted itself on the older Templar. Even as they both wore Templar officer armament (save Claudino's golden raiment to Isilud's green), it did not burden the swifter Templar.

A sudden, but expected stop, as his teacher bent low and leapt upon the barracks battlements.

Isilud was ten breaths behind, fourteen summers his junior, and barely managed a sloppy stop as his boots slide on pavement. Concentrating as best he could between deep breaths, a light head, and eyes stung by sweat, he imbued himself with a temporary surge of magick to aid his flight to the upper path.

His landing above was hard, his legs gave way and he forced himself into a roll to recover. Wiping sweat and slicking hair aside he continued to follow—even as Claudino round the corner of the barracks a hundred steps far.

He continued the rush, to chase a square lap around the battlements before breaking within.

Claudino was done, already leaping inside instructor Alfredo's courtyard before Isilud had reached the second corner.

When finished as well, gasping for air, Isilud followed in. Sword drawn from sheath and aimed to cleave the "helm" of dummy.

His blade sunk through the cheap pot and into the straw of its "face". But his feet slipped on landing once again, and he slammed hard into the ground and elicited a cry of pain.

A white mage was already on his way forward, cura spell following shortly after and relief flooded his body. "My thanks!" he gave to the mage before returning to combat.

As Claudino watched from nearby pillar, Isilud struck at the half-dozen other dummies scattered around the yard. On foot he cut their armaments apart three times; through the air he did three last. The former were of fine make, what one would expect a peasant to own; but the latter were scraps of pig iron, too useless for weapons of war. Jumping strikes may contain greater force, but they were tricky. Even moving from pure straw to iron as today had shown that.

With the last chunk of iron cut, Claudino cried out: "Hurry!" and again he was on the battlements.

The courtyard was the only shred of rest the course had. With what little air he gulped down, Isiuld followed after his instructor.

To another pass around exterior and leap back outside barracks bounds. Towards the Cathedral itself. Casting its shadow over barracks past midday, Templarate guards stationed themselves on its roofs to watch the amusement before them. Soon, next to them, as Claudino leapt to their vantage and past.

Objections to traversing a holy house had vanished once Isilud had stepped upon the highest points. Was a wondrous view to gaze across the whole of Mullonde. A treat indeed, even after week of such sights. Always something new. Perchance a pilgrimage from the southern reaches, or a ship docking nearby carrying some new mystery or the perfect way the light struck the sea to the north.

The elevation gave soothing breezes as he ran atop to the cheers of other Templarates. The aid of both keeping his constitution from fading. 'Twas not as difficult as the first day of the new routine, nor the second, but it was viciously tiring all the same, by day's end. Even with the end of their full laps approaching.

Claudino bounded northward towards the northern cliffs. The stonework on the ground faded away to bent grass as passed along their routine.

His instructor bested him yet again, arriving at the end point before Isilud had taken a half-dozen steps on soft earth. The instructed still had to strike down his half of the dozen dummies on route—same pattern of three on foot and three on the air as before. His rendings were sloppy, but they did the job enough for him to hold his head up in pride as he reached the cliffs overlooking the sea.

A waterskin was pressed into his hands which he gladly drank from before promptly collapsing into the much cooler ground—with much hotter sun striking now. Every time he was here felt like he'd just ended a swimming lesson for how moist his skin was. He worried he'd rust his armor before it saw use as a Nightblade's ward.

"You're keeping up better," said Claudino, sharing only a few beads of sweat across his workman's temple. "Week—two at the most and I'd be proud to have you as an official Nightblade."

"T-thanks..." he responded once enough air let itself. He sat back up to continue drinking. "Never did I believe that Alfredo's training would be less-harrowing."

"Wait 'til your lady sister recounts a Divine Knight's trials."

"'Til then I'll keep her ears busy with mine."

"Cheers to that!"

Master and pupil took swigs at the same time. Water ever the more so delicious after such exercises.

"Here." Claudino handed off the second waterskin once Isilud had emptied his. He did not turn down the charity, the man before him clearly did not need to refresh himself with liquids. His reddish hair that was but a fuzz on his scalp did not need to be constantly babied as Isilud's did. And his imposing size—enough that he ducked under some doors in the barracks—cast a cooling shadow over Isilud. Whatever little relief he could have, we would welcome.

"Your cuts are improving," he said. "Tomorrow we shall have double the targets."

Every day was a new change. Praise Saint Ajora this was a light one. Another full rotation would be his end! "I look forward to it."

"Good. We'll set up the four pillars as well. That should hone the accuracy of your jumps some more. Your final landings were poor today."

Raised to a moderate increase now. "I shall need to polish my armor more vigorously then," he replied. "I felt a slosh in my boots for the latter half of our runs."

"Curious..." Claudino's cloudy clue eyes. "Ah, yes, of course, I should have realized sooner. The mistake is mine." A good smile touched his lips. "You shall require some new boots forthwith."

Isilud couldn't help but be confused and let it show on his face. These were new boots. He'd requisitioned a new pair for this training.

"Dragoons, Nightblades and any who use our arts put an incredible strain on footwear. Come, check your soles."

Putting his drinks aside; he bent his boots up... and saw the smooth-as-glass bottoms. The grips had been worn away and even the grooves had been shorn down.

"The abuse we but upon our feet is unparalleled in all of Ivalice," Claudino continued. "And this training has brought out the worst of it. Retrieve a new pair before tomorrow's first light."

"Yes, ser," said Isilud and let his feet drop. His normal footwear lasted months under Alfredo. This had been the furthest thing from his mind. "How does metal fare, if I may ask?"

"Worse, if you would believe it." Claudino grimaced at the notice. "'Tis difficult enough to jump as we must, but it lacks the flexibility that leather has for landings."

Today alone showed how a poor landing could ride even in a controlled environment. "I feel I have an understanding of it now."

"Good, good," Claudino offered his assistance, "mayhap we break for lunch now?"

Isilud took his instructor's hand and returned to his feet. Waterskins returned, he nodded and the Nightblades headed back.


	17. Chapter 16: Divine Knights

**Chapter 16: Divine Knights**

Meliadoul waited at the docks as the ship, _A Psalm Every Day_ , readied her ramp for her to board. Her armor was stored safety in a trunk she hefted, Cletienne's safety tips not being lost on her. The weather was fair, for spring had yet yielded to summer, and her voyage to Gariland and overland journey to the Free City of Bervenia would be free of trouble if the sky held as such.

She'd said her goodbyes, to her brother and his Nightblade training, to Ramza and his friend Delita, to Alfredo, Lord Father and all the other officers assembled.

It was a worry, somewhat. To be on the road by oneself at any age. A week and day to reach the free city from Gariland's streets. Money enough to handle the travel paths, but any coin drew a brigand's ire.

She was a Templar, and held no fear of destitute fools, her sword would banish all before her and white magicks learned in tandem with Ramza and Cletienne would stave off any scratches they set upon her.

The isolation, was her regret. She'd lived and laughed with others her whole life. Save times of privacy, this type of isolation had never enveloped her as such.

She could handle it, of course. She was a Templar. But it was a fool's mind that did not worry about new experiences, even if they desired them.

The same concerns lay at her mind for learning the Unyielding Blade. A Divine Knighthood was her aspiration since first she laid eyes on Lord Father shattering a dozen swords without clashing direct steel once. Her mind passed over the stone-solid memories, the ever-stern visage of her father as he deftly evaded his foemen's strikes. The flash of light as a swing through air broke blade. Her own glee at the miracle before her.

Truly there was no knight close to the Gods than one who could break an opponent's ability to fight without even needing to strike directly.

The little anxiety towards mastering the Unyielding Blade was drowned in twin tides of excitement and wonder.

Seemingly a lifetime passed before the wooden plank was put down on dock and she was invited up. The ramp wobbled and creaked under weight of her traveling supplies. How difficult ship life must be.

The craft on board was as normal a ship as she'd ever ventured aboard. Templars bearing colors but no arms or armor. Who would dare strike the Church's vessel in such frequented waters?

She fully expected to be lead to quarters (dawn set would arrive by twilight), but no sailor came forth to do so. She approached one of the sailors nearby the mast, a man near her father's age, skin stricken by sun's rays for many a month and hair shaved bald entirely. "Excuse me," she said, "where might I find my quarters?"

He gave a shrug with his broad shoulders. "Beats me miss, I just haul stuff, got nothing to do with who goes where."

"I see. Thank you for your time then." She would have to speak to the captain then. "Do you recall where your captain is?"

"You passed'em on your way up. Blonde-haired fella."

She looked back, there was only one man who matched that description. But that wasn't what caught her eye—took her breath away.

Lord Father strode upon deck, armor off, trunk in hand.

If he brought but more for her there would be no need for his armor to be gone. She had more memories of his metal shell than without.

Nay, this meant he intended to voyage as well. Why then, did he not speak of it before? Was this to be a surprise for her? Were they to travel together! Or would their paths split in Gariland and he did not wish to raise her hopes of learning the sword from him?

Her father was inscrutable by all but mother and High Confessor.

Whatever the reason, her Lord Father stood on board. "Come, Meliadoul," he said. "Captain Johns has informed me where we shall make our quarters."

"Aye, Lord Father," she fell in line so easily. No! This was to be her sword! She wouldn't give it up so easily! "Lord Father!" she cried out, stopping him. "I ask—nay, I demand you teach me the Unyielding Blade!"

He did not turn back. "You make demands above your station and your skill."

"Neither." She clad her resolve in mythril. "If we ask of the Gods for peace on Ivalice, I can ask of my father for his guidance."

He turned back, half his face—stone as always, one eye shone like a diamond to break her guard. "Stow your trunk and ready your sword. I am not as kind as Alfredo."

"Yes," Lord Father." Her armor melted and she bore more full-faced a smile than her childhood days.

She kept irritatingly close to him as they placed their wears inside rooms. She cared little for them; she was to learn sword from father! A dream come true! And path towards one where she surpassed him.

Deck they did return, as ship set sail from Mullonde's waters.

"Show your stance," he told her.

From her memories she pried it, the open form that one would mistake for full of holes. But a Divine Knight need not strike with convention when they need not hit at all. Conserving stamina was the most important feature for all who attained the deeper mysteries of knighthood. From Holy Knight to Divine, calling upon magick and sword at once was thrice as difficult as either's lonesome.

"My stance," he noticed. "It shall do, for now. But you must earn your own."

"What do you mean?"

"Our bodies are different, our swings, our minds and reputations. Inviting yourself for such attacks as I do will have a dozen men rushing you before you strike but once."

"They work for you; they shall work for me."

"Nay, daughter, do you not recall? They do not strike as one for fear. Would you rush in, blind to whom you are facing?"

No. If her blade ever crossed with father's it would not be akin to the attack of some feckless brigand. She would concentrate, see what flaws he held, and strike when ready.

As had the men he bested half her age ago. Careless maneuvering against one target could lead to hitting an ally by mistake. Especially with a man as skilled as father as their foeman.

"I understand, I shall adapt at once."

"Good. Your stance for now shall suit, but remember my words."

Instruction began in earnest. Under the fair blue sky and refreshing sea salt breeze she wielded her sword at Lord Father's behest. She gathered forth magick in her blade, and kept it stable as her limits held. An ether after every release. Repeated time and time again as sun and ship sailed their blues.

Her body sweltered even without armor's embrace or sun's harshest strikes. Father, when he matched her, was peerless calm.

Charging changed to movement with sword drawn. Gather while blade swung through sky. Fourscore times the difficulty to focus on such, even with all her preparations. What scraps she gathered a far cry from unleashing steel-breaking spell. Hand's reach along blade's length all she mustered before instructions turned with sun peeking half towards its end.

Lord Father procured a sack of sticks, beckon her hold them overboard. Pour magick 'til she understood their breaking point. Over the rail she did as instructed, slowly and carefully filling the wooden rod with a spell. It trembled in her hands before she had it stored halfway. By full contain its finish began to splinter. She dropped it from her grip, the stick striking ship's side and sparking into seven pieces.

That, was why swords were used for Unyielding Blade and its like. They were more metal—sturdier than spears, axes and all other weapons that war wielded.

She continued her practice, under lord father's watchful eye even as the sky darken and matched his blacks. She was tired and hungry but more ravenous for learning than any food or sleep.

Drink was another story. When father handed her water she drank it down without hesitation. Let manners lie on a fancy table at a high-lord's estate—she was a knight.

"We bed on the ship once in port," said Lord Father shortly after. "Depart at first light."

She could not help but stare. "We are to travel together then, Lord Father?"

"I've business across Limberry and Zeltenia. Lest you desire a straight march to Bervenia by yourself, it shall be near a fortnight before we arrive."

"I would gladly travel with you, Lord Father. What business shall we conduct? If you do not mind my asking."

"Ask passage of Count Orlandeau at Fort Besselat. Speak of Marquis Elmdore's safe return at Limberry Castle. Meet with Palamedes and Baron Grimms in Sal Ghidos. End with Linnett in Bervenia."

His life was filled with more meetings than she'd been keenly aware of. Yes, he'd always been busy, but talk with a provincial lord, the lord commander of the Southern Sky, commander of another knight order and two more Templarate officers besides.

"What then, Lord Father?"

"You shall finish your training under Linnett, if you have not done so by then. Once you are Divine Knight, by either hand, you shall be lieutenant commander of Bervenia's Templarate garrison for a six-month."

Half a year from home? An exciting thing to worry about. "I shall strive to do my best, Lord Father. Then what of you, and Isilud?"

"Put your words to thought, then ink. I shall deliver whatever message you wish, to him or any other you wish."

Some gloating to Cletienne would not be too much.

"I head then to Lionel."

And the Cardinal too! "Ivalice requires much of its Templars."

"You shall see how much."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Welcome to the start of Meliadoul and Formarv's crazy five-chapter adventures. Coming soon!  
**

 **Spiritblade Review: Thanks. I shall. Keep this breakneck update pace going as long as I can.**


	18. Chapter 17: Trade City Sold

**Chapter 17: Trade City Sold**

With mounts donated by a church in Gariland, Meliadoul and her Lord Father had made good time towards their goals. At sunrise they left Gariland, and at sunset they arrived in Dorter. Two days journey covered not even by one full. They'd brooked no diversions in the woodlands and river of the Siedge Weald.

Their mounts were in dire need of rest however. Riding them so long, taking meals atop them, had the poor birds choking for air by the time they finally dismounted. Chocobos were excellent beasts of burden, swifter than aught but the fiercest winds and surpassed only by men for endurance. But even they weren't perfect.

Lord Father had them arrive at a church within the wealthier side of the town. Built upon a gentle slope, with houses made of white stone, roofs tiled blue and wooden frames so impeccable they may well have been new.

Preparations were made, chocobos for tomorrow's journey to Besselat, and rooms for the night.

But after depositing her possessions, she did not seek sleep, or nourishment. No, she was free to see the city for what it was.

With Lord Father's blessing, she strode the streets with naught but her sword and dress-robes.

It was... less, than she thought. 'Twas night, so few people were about. The streets were illuminated by lamps, but there was little in the way to speak of. A rather boring start to a life of her own.

Noise broke through the night—rowdy, rough. Plenty of men and the yelps of women.

A tavern!

She hoped.

The barracks served alcoholic drink to senior Templars, but it never reached the frenzy she heard echoing. She was of drinking age, but that would just be a foolish idea. Drinking in a city whose streets she did not know? Lord Father would have her back to Mullonde before daybreak!

Speaking with the locals however, getting a feel for them, and the city? That was a goodly right thing to do. Who knew what maidens needed rescuing from some overzealous barfly?

She followed the sounds and around her the spotless white stones slowly gave way to grays and blacks. The freshly-cut woods became just a tad weathered. A few tiles were missing from a roof here and there. The edges of the finer side of town were still far cry from the city slums.

The tavern itself would be clear to see even had it not been bothering a dozen streets away. Its lanterns shown inside and out of every one of its windows. A dozen men mingled by outside, obscured by light and shadow.

She brushed past, none paying her but a quick glance, and entered the bar. Packed to capacity—beyond that, as more men seemingly stood than sat.

Mayhap this not the best idea. But she pushed concerns—and people—aside whence a stool opened near the bar. Some drunkard getting dragged outside by two others.

She took a seat on the uncushioned wooden stool. It wobbled somewhat when she did, but it like did not matter.

The bartender was to her with surprisingly swiftness for a man graced with three chins. "What'll it be miss?"

No liquor for her. Water would just be odd. "Milk," she said.

"Milk?" He raised his reddish eyebrows up with a look of surprise.

"Yes, milk."

"Most folks don't come in here gaping for milk."

"I am sure your regulars are accustomed to the city's streets after dark."

Realization dawned on him; he gave a nod. "Aye, you're a smart lass then. Had plenty of out-of-towners go stumbling into the slums thinking it's where their inn was. I'll be right back." He departed behind the doors nearby.

She busied herself watching the tavern-goers do what they did.

Pinching ladies hindquarters had her hands hastening to draw steel—but slaps and jeers from dozens of others threw out whomever dared tried. It was still sickening that it happened, but at least it wasn't tolerated.

Some broke into fights, which were then broken by outsiders, or... bouncers (if she recalled the name correctly).

It was certainly livelier than the Templar barracks. If somewhat lonelier without Isilud or Ramza here.

"One glass of milk," said the bartender.

Meliadoul turned around to see a filled tankard laid before her. It was worn down, but clean. "Thank you." She took a taste of the milk. "That's quite good." Better than the barracks, actually. Gariland was superior, in further comparison.

"How much do I owe?" she asked before she'd even finished.

"It'll be ten gil."

Seemed a fair steep. Within her funds, of course, but small wonder peasantry complained of taxes if but a single glass of milk was ten gil. Did Gariland behold the same rate? They were but delivered drinks...

For either case, she would pay. She retrieved the coin from purse and laid in in the man's waiting palm.

"Thank ya kindly miss."

"You're welcome." She took another drink. "Pray tell me, has the price always been this high?"

"High?" He stared at her. "'Tis the cheapest it's been since the war ended! Why, we're full-up more than usual these days because we serve so cheap."

Her economic learning was sorely lacking it seemed. She could recount the pricing of potion to rune blade but milk was beyond her. Somewhat comedic, now that she realized it.

"Is it? 'Tis my first time paying for such."

"Aye. That I can tell. Some noble lady or just on your own for the first time?"

She wasn't dim enough to answer that directly. "Singular things. I've bought food and drink aplenty in bulk."

He gave her a queer look, eventually shrugging and saying, "You're the traveler."

Worked well enough. She hoped.

She finished her milk, refused the offer of a refill, and took in the ambiance of the room. The cheer was slowly dropping way to the darker side of drinking. She'd seen Alfredo slip a few times into such. 'Twas not a pleasant sight by half, and seeing a dozen men and women collapse unto the tables crying was unnerving.

Too sad to watch. She thanked the bartender again and left (her seat taken but a second after she left it).

Night's chill had taken affect back outside—far cry from the tavern heated by bodies and tempers.

The silence-breaking merriment slowly trailed off as she walked back towards the church. 'Twas not the most fulfilling of ventures, but was a learning experience all the same.

Never indicate yourself to be of wealth, lest you be followed by brigands after.

A half-dozen would be difficult even if she was properly equipped. Should she attempt to lose them? Nay, these would be their streets. She could not outrun them, or lose them in alleys. Shouting for aid, would have them upon her in a second before any city guard or Northern Sky heard.

A sad state it was that even the fair side of town hosted villains.

Two of them were shuffling—some type of mage, likely black. The shafts of arrows clinked, two archers, it seemed. The last two she had little idea. Their footprints were soft, and no metal shifted on their persons. Thieves, most like, though monks were a possibility, as well as chemists and many other more advanced threats. But if they were ninjas or such, their skills would be better peddled to a knight order.

There might be a way to put back to wall and fight one at a time, but any smart fight would have them simply whittle her down with magicks and arrows from afar.

That said, they could not possibly be prepared for a Divine Knight.

Would that she were one.

She moved towards the next turn, a side-eye at her foemen. Confirming their numbers and her suspicions. Out of sight, she drew blade as slightly as she could.

Prayed she was naught being overtly paranoid and they were indeed brigades.

She thrust at the first face that rounded the corner—too sharp a turn to be innocent!

He dodged.

Her sword struck blood but he fell back on his rear to the street's corners.

Daggers, staves and bows were drawn already.

Foul fortune to be right.

"Crazy wench!" the cut man screamed. "You'd best be paying for the cut upon my face!"

The cut was an improvement. The man had the lines of a face contorted to anger all days. "You will find me no easy mark, thieves. Depart at once and you may yet keep your lives."

"You attack us, and we're the thieves?" the man pushed himself up—right when Meliadoul struck again!

He scampered back to avoid a deathblow, but naught was her intent. She aimed for his belt, and the dagger—only weapon still sheathed—within. Her sword did draw blood, as she cut through cloth and earned ire of all around her. The blade sliced through the leather—the man scrambled for his weapon but Meliadoul arced her swing and knocked dagger and belt a ways behind her.

Barely in time to stop the thrust from the fellow thief. She caught his first, but he did not linger as a swordsmen might have. He attempted to stab repeatedly but every block saw him retreat.

She, as well. She ducked around the corner to prevent the rear support from striking. The black mages had yet to chant, but the archers were notching arrows.

"Listen wench, give us the coin and you'll get away without a scratch on that pretty face of yours," the disarmed thief said.

"Your charms shall not work on me you rogue."

A distraction, maybe. As replying lowered her guard for a second enough for the thief to cut her wrist.

She positioned her blade, to bleed to her sleeves, not down her gloves.

This needed to end, now.

Concentrating magick into blade, she held to dodging strikes rather than parry. Unleashing before 'twas ready would bring uncertain disaster.

So the thief and his companions saw fit to take advantage. He pulled back, letting the archers, who'd come around by now, let their arrows loose.

One she could dodge, but with building on her right the set was enough that one arrow scraped her thigh as she ducked aside.

The thief moved in—her blade was full! She met the strike, unleashed magick and knocking his blade upwards broke his weapon! The shards explosion wrought sent shards to his face (her blade protected hers) and he screamed bloody high into night and fell off his feet.

This stunned the archers long enough for Meliadoul to push past the panicked thief and weave in melee. She needed no Unyielding Blade to break their wooden bows. Relieved of their weapons, they fled backwards as well.

The initial thief boss had yet to reach for the weapon. The mages still posed a problem, and a half-dozen beating her with fists was still a concern. But she'd proven enough, she could threaten them away now.

"Flee," she commanded. "What meager coin you'd take from my person shall have you at a loss; you've naught but spells left and I shall take half your number before I fall. _At least_."

"Come too far to fall back now wench," the boss said through clenched teeth. "Just more for the remainder."

Too fool to consider. "And what of the rest of you?" she posed to them. "Six-ways split my coin is not enough for a day's proper meals, let alone replacing what you've already lost." 500—490 gil was little these days.

Ignoring the screamer, the rest remained silent. But the nervous glances they shared...

"You are rather outnumbered on this matter, I would think."

"Damn you swine! 'Twas I who put food on your tables and gil in your pockets and this is my repayment?" They looked away in disgrace, but made no moves. "Bah to the lot of you!"

Meliadoul looked at one of the woman archers. "Are his words true?"

Surprised, she nonetheless did answer: "Yes."

"You look naught a charitable sort."

"Don't patronize me, wench."

"Repeat that word once more and you'll match your friend's screams."

"I don't fear you."

Meliadoul returned her sword. "Nor should you." But kept her hand close by for if the thief darted for his dagger. "I, too, am a charitable sort." She removed her gil pouch and tossed it to the man. She alone remained unsurprised at the gesture.

"I don't want your damn pity!" He smacked away the purse. The coins within jingled into the night's air.

"Then let them have the all of it. I care little for how you split it or spend it, save that you do no evil with it."

He laughed right in her face. "Do no evil? Fancy yourself a swordmaiden do ye?"

She lightly smiled at him. "I think our encounter speaks for itself."

His eyes narrowed at her. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

"I recall mentioning I was a charitable sort? All I ask of you is to consider a kindness."

Utter bafflement was his answer. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"Find for yourself." She looked back at the bloodied thief. "Though I believe it starts with a number of potions for your fellow."

"Damn you."

"Faram."

She walked away. As precaution, she kept them in sight 'til she could no longer.

They did not pursue.


	19. Chapter 18: God

**Chapter 18: God**

Fort Besselat was the singular greatest fortification in Ivalice. Their stride towards Limberry was marked by continued fair weather and good time, and Folmarv and Meliadoul now trotted the fort's upwards slope to its gates. The land itself was a natural fortress, surrounded on three sides by sheer cliffs, with the fort atop. Any army that marched against it would be forced into the corridor they now walked and pinned with countless arrows. If any army sought to attack it from the west, the sluice floodgate upriver could be released to drown a whole army (at the cost of damaging farming irrigation).

Guarded by Southern Sky veterans decorated with a dozen campaign medals for meritorious service. Commanded by Count Cidolfus Orlandeau, the man whose sword skills were so renowned he was accepted at Thunder God even by the Church. 'Twas the one absolute bastion that never faltered against Ordallian invasion.

Limberry and Zeltenia on the borders lost half their lands or more. Romandan ships across the straight laid siege to Fovoham, Gallione and Lesalia. Sneak attacks struck at Lionel. Even Mullonde, once, had been besieged by a Romandan war-host.

Besselat stood firm.

When his daughter laid eyes on the great walls above she could not help a small gasp of wonder.

He held wonder of a different sort. 'Twould be a difficult task to see the Northern and Southern meet their ends here. Palamedes' trek into Blackram ranks was slow; and though acquisition of the Zodiac Stones had been equally as such, the report of Dycedarg's insistence on crowning the Prince bode poorly.

The Beoulve boy had proven trouble to bring, however indirect it was to blame him.

Beneath the great northern towers, they stopped. A host or archers and knights staring below at them.

"Make you business plain, or begone," the commander shouted down.

"I am Grand Master Formarv Tengille of the Knights Templar to meet with His Excellency, Count Orlandeau," he replied with a shout of his own. "I ride with my daughter, Meliadoul Tengille and the blessing of His Holiness. We seek safe passage to Limberry."

The announcement sent visible waves through the Southern Sky. The veterans maintained their composure (mayhap some even recognized him) but the newly-caped and akademy-fresh recruits shifted in worry.

"We shall send word to His Excellency at once."

Expected. "Our mounts have ridden hard these days. We shall dismount and await word." He gave a nod to Meliadoul and the two left their saddles. The birds gave small cries of pleasure as their burdens were relieved, but they were too tired to accomplish much else.

"'Tis slow of a replay," Meliadoul said with hushed tones.

If this sluggish response stayed true, 'twould be a useful crumb of information at a latter date.

The gates wretched open. Metal beating against stone and screeching through the air as double paired gates and a portcullis opened upwards, inwards and to the side.

Count Cidolfus Orlandeau stood at the host of Southern Sky knights, all saluting save their lord commander. Old Cid was a little more gray, a little more wrinkled. But Folmarv had no doubts that if the Thunder God saw fit, Excalibur would be the last thing the Templar ever saw. The Sword Saint moved with a grace that a man of no grays did. Seemingly unburdened by the heavy black plate he wore, or the thick brown cloak covering his body and head with hood.

"Well, I cannot say I expected a visit from the Templarate," said Cid, his voice calm, but curious. "What reason do you seek passage to Limberry, Grand Master?"

"I go with the well wishes of Mullonde to Marquis Elmdore," replied Folmarv. "We have not yet expressed our relief that he has returned safe from his time held by the Corpse Brigade." Truth enough.

"Nigh three months after and only now you arrive? With the Grand Master no less?"

"My presence is both apology and acknowledgement of our esteem for His Lordship. Mullonde has been busy in wake of His Majesty's unfortunate passing—may he rest in peace—and we've only now come to terms of schedule to meet with the Marquis."

"And but the two of you?"

He was too cautious by half. Even if he was right to be. "Paranoia stalks enough of Ivalice's streets. A host of Templar riding to Black Lion's realm would be eyed suspicious by the White."

Cid eyed him intently, but fell to a sigh. "I fear you are correct, grim as it may be."

One could always count on disappointment of the Queen and noble tensions to earn sympathy.

Being truth, helped as well.

"We would be on our way after an hour's rest," said Folmarv. The chocobo's would need more than that, but any spies in the wrong sky would question outright intent to remain.

"I would be remiss if I did not offer you shelter for the night," Cid gave the expected offer.

"Your kindness if appreciated, but best for all we make our way soon as able."

"Come now, your mounts look ready to keel over with another step. You'd drive the poor beasts to an early grave with only an hour's rest." Cid gave a presumptuous nod to a nearby lieutenant, who ran off. "We can have the best food on your plates and our softest beds."

Now was the time to let it out of his hands... "Hardly can I turn down such charity." He looked at Meliadoul. "What say you, shall we feast in Southern halls?"

"Yes, Lord Father." Not a hint of hesitation.

"There we have it then."

"Good, good, I believe we have some catching up to do in private then?"

Ahhh, there was the hook. "It would be my pleasure." Whatever Cid wanted, he would not get.

"Your daughter may dine in the officer's mess."

The lieutenant from before returned. "If you would follow me, milady."

Folmarv gave her an accepting nod and she followed after the knight. He, meanwhile, went with Cid to the Thunder God's personal room.

It was wholly frugal, which Folmarv certainly appreciated. The gaudiness of his Cathedral office was too stuffy, even for a man wearing gilded armor. A few chairs and cabinets showing their age and a desk buried in the thousand nigh-pointless reports and suggestions from nobles wanting Cid to do everything for them while taking the credit.

Just like home, really.

"Drink?" Cid offered before seating himself.

"Nay," Folmarv replied before taking opposing chair. "Lest you stock Bacchus Liqueur."

A smile took to the Thunder God's lips as he opened a drawer. Sure enough, did the Count produce a bottle of the famous Liqueur. The sweet smell of the drink filled the room as the Lord Commander poured it into two glasses. "Cheers."

"Faram."

It was delicious.

And dangerous.

To stock his favored spirits the moment he visited? Not a chance coincidence. Did Cid have eyes in Mullonde? Gariland? Dorter? Or simply wish to put such thoughts to mind?

As much a paragon of knighthood he was held, the Count knew well the value of spycraft. The most valued spy was one never suspected of such.

So why then, even glint the capabilities?

Such was the work that a true answer never existed.

"Would only Barbaneth and His Majesty be here with us."

Folmarv nodded. "To peace on Ivalice."

"Aye, peace." Cid gave a solemn nod.

Too bad one of the men would not live to see it.

* * *

Meliadoul was buried under questions of the Southern Sky. The raw recruits in awe of a swordmaiden, the veterans with poignant questions, and the leches offering vapid compliments to turn her eyes starry.

It wasn't as overbearing as Alfredo's lessons, yet it was running her ragged and turning meal sour with each second.

Just the difficulties of life, she supposed. This would certainly not be among the fond memories whence she returned to Mullonde. Oh what she wouldn't give to treat with the Thunder God. If there was but one man her lord father's better...

But no. She was buffeted by braggarts. After she warded away their meager attempts at wooing her, it suddenly became embarrassing insults.

So she would embarrass them on field.

The older knights smirked at that.

Her first opponent was naturally the loudest. He made a great deal of showing force but his attacks were all bluster. Likely fresh out of an akademy. 'Twas not hard to parry that one when he came running sword raised. She kicked him off-balance and brought her sword down.

The ruffians in Dorter had proven better opponents than a true knight. Her wrist still throbbed from that cut, despite her use of cure to mend it.

Her second foe was little better. Though he approached more cautiously, a sudden burst of aggression from her blade saw him falling to his hind.

Third was better sport, in that she needed a third blow to actually secure her victory. He angled his sword enough to deflect her strike, but 'twas not enough to hold his stance and a shoulder strike sent him to the loser's corner.

If this was to be the caliber of men that defended an impenetrable fortress, Ivalice had dark days ahead of her.

The windbags who'd forced her hand grew silent, earning the only smile from her lips they'd ever see.

So the fourth opponent, was somewhat of a surprise. 'Twas one of the knights that remained silent 'til now.

"You've true skill, that I see," he said. "I aught claim we still men of honor with a bout."

She nodded. Edgeless swords drawn. Though her opponent was still a man with boyish features like his earlier fellows, he did not move with their arrogant gait. His was self-assured. He'd seen battle. He'd seen killing.

His thrust was quick, she narrowly avoided it. Just as he narrowly avoided her swift slash counter. His stance was awkward, yet he struck another thrust. Her stance was awkward, and she batted the sword tip down with her pommel.

He stepped in—tackle! Both had the same idea, slamming an ugly mess together to the laughs of watchers.

The tangled and disorienting mess that was them pulled apart, swords back to the ready.

She moved to the aggressor first, swinging in low to catch him off guard. It did work, but he just leapt away to avoid any follow up. He was not a dragoon, but he was quick on his feet. But there were only so many a place to retreat in this type of field. She kept to the aggression, varying her strikes origins, pushing him further to their ring's edge as per a hastily-made plan.

When he could fall back no more, he struck back. 'Twas all she needed to tackle him out of bounds.

'Twas a relief to hear him laugh at it at least. "Not tactics to bring victory in a true sense, I would say."

"'Twould atop a roof, or wall, I say."

"True." He stood up. "Name's Rock, milady. You were magnificent."

She gave him a slight nod. "You were a well-to-do opponent. Though I think you'd be more at home with true edges."

"The same to you."

She'd much the advantage of the situation. Still, she was confident even a real battle would edge to her favor. "I would safety declare the Southern Sky honorable."

"You do us a kindness, my lady."

* * *

 **Author's Note: I'll certainly be doing some changes to this Chapter later. Just too pressured by day's end to not post it. In addition, there's been more added to the Prologue and fixing some embarrassing mistakes of Volmarv.**

 **Spiritblade: Thank you for your Review. They'll have their role to play, that's for sure. Though what... well... gleam what can be found in the next Chapter.  
**


	20. Chapter 19: Rightful Hands

**Chapter 19: Rightful Hands**

Bidding farewell to Southern hospitality, Folmarv and Meliadoul were on their way at dawn. Continuing east, they kept their mounts to a simple walk rather than the gallop they'd been before. These mounts were to last to Bervenia, and they'd a week's journey ahead.

They made camp at the fringes of the Dorvaulder Marsh some hours before sunset. Resting in the muggy wash invited sickness they could not risk.

With light enough, Folmarv continued with his daughter's practice. Though focused on the practical applications of weapon crushing first and foremost; he eased her into the steps for other applications. Weapons were intuitive to shatter, so close to what one gathered magick in.

Shields first, as they were the least challenging set. Focus first on cutting the lash to arm. A ranged extension of a knight's arts at this level.

Slicing out the straps of plates, or cutting apart the shoulders to let armors drop.

Disrupting a helmets visor, blinding foeman.

Cutting a cape, steadying a bangle.

By dusk she knew the basic forms. Training enough would see it viable.

They slept.

* * *

Morning arrived, with its meal and a march under the young sun.

Dorvaulder Marsh was a vital set of wetlands to Limberry. Water pulled from here fed into the plains and the provinces rich fields.

But for now he cursed the rising sun. The fair weather broke and summer's onset begat a humid ride. The moist air clung to every breath he took and every whiff of air with the pungent smell of the marsh. Sweat formed in spite of so little movement.

Would this not be the swiftest path to Limberry.

They encamped at the marsh's end. Slow-going had taken most of the day. There was little time left for training.

* * *

Sun continued its harshness whence they resumed pace to Limberry Castle. No clouds colored the sky, leaving every bit of radiance to fall upon them.

The accompanying town (the name escaped him for the moment) to the liege-lord of Limberry was in well spirits. With summer breaking, they would soon turn to their occupation of planting. Gil would exchange hands for services—people would make their livelihood. Not even years after war's end and their smiles spread wide and words sung praises.

Marquis Elmdore had accomplished a well rapport with his commons. His support for their endeavors was invaluable.

They left the town to road, Limberry Castle itself coming into distant view. Even from horizon's edge, the white-stone of its walls was a distinct sight. Sitting on the shores of Loch Dolla, the castle was ringed by a moat of Loch's waters. The banners of the Marquis (a blackened trident's point with a door's knocker below and a throes of a thorns at the bottom; backed by red) flew across its walls.

It was a magnificent fortification that still bore the scars of the Fifty Years' War. The once shining white stones had lost much of their luster. The loch waters no longer encircled the whole basin; lingering piles of muck sticking here and there. Banners

Yet it was a sign of where the Marquis' priorities were. Lesalia Castle and its hosts of noblemen were unblemished by any spot of dirt on their homes. While the capital city slums rotted as all slums did. All the buildings past by minutes ago were intact. Not fancy by any means. But there were four walls and a roof. What did the Marquis care for dirt on his walls if his people had none? All the money he garnered through taxes was pushed straight back into his people.

Precisely why Folmarv was here.

There was only a handful of sentries atop Limberry's walls. Far cry from Besselat's endless host.

"For what reason do you approach the lands of His Lordship?"

"I am Grand Master Folmarv Tengille of the Knights Templar requesting audience with Marquis Messam Elmdore de Limberry. At my side rides my daughter, Meliadoul Tengille."

"Envoys of the Church are always welcome in Limberry's borders. Word will be sent to the Marquis at once. Settle yourself within Limberry's halls 'til the Marquis is ready."

Both more courteous and less than Besselat. Curious.

The gates opened and they took invitation. Dismounting from their chocobos and following a liaison inside. 'Twas unlike the Marquis to keep Church officials waiting at all. He'd once cut short a meeting with a host of Barons to treat with Loffrey. Something was amiss.

The room they were led to was pleasant enough. Cushioned chairs, a few bookcases and a small fireplace.

The aide left them alone. "Summon if you need anything" as his last words.

"This is wrong," he said.

"What do you mean?" asked Meliadoul.

"The Marquis has never set aside a Church visitor in his life. Something is amiss. When he and I go aside to discuss matters, you must learn what you can on your own." She'd no specialty at subterfuge, but one works with what they're given.

She grew confused at it. "We are not hear to spread well-wishes, are we?"

"We are," he repeated. "But if something troubles the Marquis it is our duty to put an end to it."

"Yes, Lord Father."

But it was not hard to realize what drew the Marquis' attention if not even Templarate could rouse him from work. Higher powers—and Goltanna did not leave Zeltennia without a host of knights and Cid at his side—or a matter not for Templar ears.

Half the reason Folmarv was here was reason why he now waited. An odd coincidence.

The sun's position through the windows was well changed by the time the door knocked. In arrived the same steward as before, as well as two young women. "His Lordship is ready to receive you now, Lord Folmarv."

"Good."

"Celia and Lettie shall attend to your daughter's needs while you're away."

"Very well."

The serving girls stepped aside to let the Grand Master through. And though he was familiar with Limberry's halls, even amongst the occasional spot of broken stone, he left the steward to lead. Past the castle keep, towards Elmdore's public office. "Marquis Limberry awaits within."

Their was no formal announcement as he entered. While to be expected from Cid, who was soldier first and noble second. Elmdore had always observed the correct acts of address and politeness. This matter weighed on his soul heavily.

Elmdore set at the head of the table that centered the room. The Marquis' back to a roaring blaze in the enormous fireplace (wider than the table) with a map of Ivalice above it. The half-dozen windows to the side still let in their light atop desks wedged below them.

Folmarv took seat opposite the Marquis, who never once raised from his own chair. The "Silver Prince" wore a look of tired resignation. If his hair had not gone gray since birth it would surely be turning now.

"It is a welcome relief to see you alright, Your Lordship."

"Please, Folmarv," the Marquis pleaded. "Let us skip the pleasantries. We are both well aware of the nature of your visit."

To the point then. "His Holiness sends his sympathies and regards to your safe return to Limberry. His only regret is not arriving in person."

Elmdore gave a sigh. "I would not ask His Holiness to worry his health for the sake of mine. His concerns are appreciated."

"He shall be gladden to hear such." Folmarv leaned forward. "What gratitude is given to the White Lion that saw your release."

Odd relief took to the Marquis' face. "Three months of grain—sold at tax-exact cost—and a shipment of arms for three hundred knights. If I do not sway Limberry's support to Gallione."

Starve and disarm his foe or turn him ally. Strike at what the marquis cared most for: his people. "Foul fortune that the Corpse Brigade met your entourage."

"Do you take me for a fool, Folmarv?" he exploded. "I've been given two lengths of rope to hang myself with. Would you have me fasten my noose with dishonor instead? For playing the fool to Dycedarg's schemes chokes my throat well enough."

"I would ask of you throw both away."

Elmdore shook his head. "My response remains the same. I have sworn my mortal allegiance to Druksmald. No matter his fury whence my influence sways."

That same honor was exactly why his allegiance must change. "Ivalice needs its heroes, Messam."

"I am no hero, Folmarv. I was beset by brigades and bested."

"Whence was the last time you held masamune's edge before the ambush?" For certain had he returned to form after such embarrassment. "Three months? Five?"

"Barbaneth has a country shake in its boots on his death bed while I yet complain of three months of rust slacking me lower than barely-fed men?" The Marquis slumped in his chair. "Nay, Folmarv. I am no Silver Prince, nor Silver Demon. When Larg turns on Goltanna I shall simply be amongst the many corpses before it is done." Bitterness took hold of everything.

"No sword can ward off sickness' kiss, Marquis."

"Nor can mine stop a dozen blades aimed at me."

This self-absorbed narcissism needed to end. Now. Folmarv stood from his seat and made way next to the Marquis. "Drag yourself as low as you may. But the hands of your people shall always stand you up, as you did for them. The High Confessor and the Templarate shall always treat you as just." He reached into his surcoat and retrieved the precious gem.

Gemini. Laying it in front of the Marquis' widening eyes. "Aye, you may not be a hero anymore, Messam. But you shall be a Brave."

"As I live and breathe..." He slowly took the gemstone in his hands.

"You have faith in the Gods. We have faith in you."

"You ask much of me."

"Only that you remain yourself. At war's end, Ivalice shall have its Zodiac Braves end yet another conflict."

The Marquis turned gaze from gem to man. "I cannot accept such a gift." But his hands clutched it all the tighter.

"You are ordained inquisitor, Messam. It is only right that it is in your hands."

Elmdore's sight fell back to the auracite in his hands. Contemplating its deeper mysteries. "Could not we put stop to this war before it begins?"

"Mayhap were Larg and Dycedarg not so enthralled with power. But their ears do not heed Gods' message. Their lips flap with threats and orders. Would they have their way, we would be crushed like overripe grape."

Fury ignited within Elmdore. Himself, he could stomach as victim. The Church? Hardly. "So long as one breath remains in my body such shall never come to pass."

It was a flattering change. Convincing the High Confessor and Cletienne to award Elmdore the stone had been the correct decision. Limberry's cooperation was worth more than Cletienne's hawing and there were other stones to return with.

"Whom else holds stones?"

"Trusted confidants." But leaving it at that would imply otherwise of the Marquis. "Loffrey. The Cardinal."

"Cid?"

"What?" He cursed his fool mouth answering before his mind caught it.

"You... you didn't give it to him?"

"We hold only three." Regain trust with exclusiveness.

"Cid is deserving of the title Brave." Elmdore, well aware of his mistake, maneuvered to protect the Thunder God.

"That he is." But the Count was too loyal a man to accept the Church's authority to rule. Elmdore, mayhap even Zalbaag Beoulve, could be shone the light. Cid, Goltanna, Larg, Dycedarg and the Queen would be removed. "I've no intent of prying auracite from the hand of one who does not wish to part with it."

Clear as day Elmdore did not accept that. "Your man who held the stone previous gave it willingly then?"

"He knew its safety was better in your hands."

"So the safety of the Count's stone should remain."

"I would not go barging into his office demanding he hand it over. Such would implicate you immediately."

Elmdore laid the gemstone on the table, sunlight striking its purple and shining brilliantly. "High Father give me an answer."

Only the flames behind him sounded.

"Even holy auracite sounds no voice of God."

"Similar thought to those who drank of Bervenia's well."

Elmdore gave a sharp laugh at that. "I'll trust in God's messenger. As the first followers did."

"Thank you, Messam."

"Thank you, Folmarv. I feel my spirits return with stone in hand."

"Clutch to breast and temper your skill. The world shall have need of its Braves soon enough."

* * *

When Lord Father left the room; Meliadoul was left with two servants. Women, Celia a half-dozen summers her senior and Lettie within months the same age as herself; shining blonde hair and dressed in fair, but modest clothing as befitting servants.

They were also strikingly beautiful, even to her eyes. Her focus was to the sword more than high-lady concerns, but these two clearly had aspirations of latter.

But there was also something that put her on edge with them. She couldn't explain it, but something was just... off.

When she asked for a tour, they agreed wholeheartedly. Exchanging some light banter along the way. They'd been hired by the Marquis shortly after the Fifty Years' War ended. Paths crossed in a local church where their skills at dancing caught his eye.

They danced less these days, spending more time as special liaisons to privileged guests. (Lucky her.)

Still, something about their steps, about their breathing. It wasn't just a professional dancer's. It wouldn't be a surprise to have a servant with martial skills. Or a guard masquerading as one to catch others unaware. So it was a distinct possibility they were more than they said. (But who wasn't, after all?)

Prying into that was discourteous, and they were here for peaceful purposes. Yes, she'd liked to treat with the Silver Prince, as she had not spoken much with the Thunder God, but such was the way of things beyond her station.

She'd just have to reach it herself.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Thank you new Favorite and Follow. NaNo's almost done which means updates will slow. (Unless there's a sudden clamor for continued daily updates or something hahaha.) I still intend a somewhat frequent update pace. If erratic.**


	21. Chapter 20: White, White Light

**Chapter 20: White, White Light**

Messam watched his Templar allies depart from his lands. Atop the ramparts he, and his staff, waved them goodbye until they were out of sight.

He retired back to his office. A chill running down his spine in spite of summer's heat and the fireplace burning away.

Sure sign there was something amiss.

He clasped the Gemini stone tightly as he peered into its wondrous depths. Shining brilliantly in the sun's fading rays. He ran his hands over every surface of the crystal—smooth to a degree he never thought possible. Who else but the Gods could refine stone so immaculately? What secrets did it hold?

There was a light thrumming of magick from within. As one would feel in enchanted blades. Surely there was a way to access such power?

But there was nothing as he turned the stone over and over again. He would not risk besmirching it with his own imbuements but minutes receiving it. No, there were a number of religious texts in his library that would speak of Saint Ajora and the Zodiac Braves. While a far cry from the great library of Mullonde, there were several volumes in his possession not replicated in the holy capital's. They would be certain to hold an answer for him.

That would be for tomorrow. When light was rising, not fading. For now he basked in the hopes put on his shoulders. He would not abandon Ivalice to men like Dycedarg and Larg or Barrington.

A light knock interrupted his investigation. He moved the stone to his person and gave permission: "Enter."

The doors opened, and Celia and Lettie walked in.

"How was she?" he asked.

"Capable," Celia answered. "'Twould not be out of hand to presume she grew curious."

"Oh?" The two assassins were experts of their craft. "Did you intend to lead her on?"

"Somewhat."

He mused on the answer. 'Twas not impossible for Lord Folmarv's daughter to be astute alike her lord father. "Your impressions of her?"

"We would have a knife in her back at a moment's notice. But for fair fight she holds herself on-ready with sharp eyes."

"Precision is a Divine Knight's greatest asset." Much like her lord father.

"Ours as well."

"They are our allies." He felt the need to remind them.

"Always, my lord."

He'd never once thought it a mistake to take the two into his household after war's end. Whatever their pasts, they'd proven loyal and true. If a bit wayward to solutions. Violence need not always be the first end.

A part of himself did contemplate putting their skills to practical use. Put a target on Dycedarg's back for daggers to find. The Corpse Brigade's sudden strike had proven Beoulve shield not impervious.

Yet it would simply incite war as the sucklings of the White Lion blamed and bickered for power. The populace would be damaged enough by the upcoming war. Letting fools run rampant would ruin more.

No, the White Lion needed to thrive. Once the Church's support for the Black was made apparent, then they could strike.

* * *

The salt flats of the once-lake Poescas gave the air a flavor akin to the sea. It was an odd stretch for such a landmark. But maps pre-cataclysm were impossibly rare. Whatever upheaval the land had taken in its years lost utterly.

Regardless of its origins, they could not encamp on its beds. The chocobos could not forage for their meals on nothing. This cut into Meliadoul's training yet again as they made their sleep between the lakes edge and before the mounts of Mount Germinas.

Though she for certain repeated her lessons in mind—practical experience was always best. As they again made way northwards to the mount itself, what he would give for a pack of brigands...

"You lot want be passin', ye best pay the toll. Bit a gil and ye be on yer way. Don't be thinkin' dem swords be helping ye, lest ye pay blood instead."

It was rather morose to have them accosted like this after he just hoped for it.

Though if this sort of fortune held out, he would hope to find Leo soon enough.

They had the advantage of the high ground atop one of Mount Germinas' peaks. Their leader, a crude ninja, a threesome of archers and two thieves. All men, all crude.

Nevertheless they held the advantage in numbers and positioning; while Meliadoul and himself bore no armor (stored in their luggage). Even if it mattered naught. The order was simply to eliminate them as swiftly as possible to put them to route. Brigands would hardly stay and fight if their number halved at battle's start.

"I shall take the left, lord father," said Meliadoul under her breath.

Initiative, good.

Their lead ninja brandished a pair of flails as his weapon. The exotic training leading one to accomplish mainhand strength with the off.

Then this highwaymen saw fit to waste that advantage on unwieldy morning stars was a question Folmarv would never hear the answer to.

"Very well," he replied.

"Oh, fancy lads with more sense than most."

Folmarv ripped his blade free, imbued it with magicks in a heartbeat and flashed its strike towards the right morning star.

The flail exploded on itself, ruining the ninja's hand. Before he could even scream, the left exploded as well and he grumbled into a wordless heap.

"Payment shall be made in blood, aye," he declared. "Yours."

The archers drew their strings back—the Divine Knights marshaled their chocobos forward towards a curve. The arrows sounded through the air. Twice-near misses to himself and one to Meliadoul.

Their position threw one archer from sight, but the other two had their lock. An arrow took his left shoulder.

He was well-accustomed to pain—'twas but an annoyance. But being tested by highwaymen was the bigger problem.

They rounded curve, out of the archers range, for now.

He pried the arrow free for Meliadoul to cure. "Good work," he said as she mended his flesh.

"Thank Cletienne and Ramza."

"I shall."

The terrain was unfamiliar, but there would be some passage to reach their foemen, for the highwaymen needed some route to do so in the first place. Assuredly now guarded by the thieves and covered by the archers. A simple retreat past was also an option, but that brought to fore the unfamiliar terrain once more.

"Lord Father." Forlmarv looked to his daughter. She was hardened for battle. "Let me draw their attention up front while you strike their flanks."

"You give me orders?" Good, she couldn't be meek as an officer, Templar or Tengille.

"A suggestion made from facts. You are the stronger Divine Knight. You would cut these brigands down in a single strike—I cannot say the same of myself."

"You do yourself too little credit."

"You are assured, I am not."

No arguing with her on this. "They will have a half-dozen volleys in flight before I may strike. Six arrows saw me hit, you shall be as well. Equip your armor."

She gave a nod, and chanted, "Precious light, become armor to protect us." The white magick swirled around their bodies, an invisible shield to ward off physical strikes. "'Twould be what we can. Swiftness is more boon than armor." She loosed her luggage to the relief of her mount.

"Zomala be with you," he gave his blessing.

"Gods watch over us both," she replied and took lead around the further curve.

An arrow greeted them before they even turned.

"Yah!" Meliadoul kicked her chocobo into a run and weaved through the rock formations ahead. Arrows chased after her. None hit.

From their angles, Folmarv derived their positioning. Magick to blade, the second the volley was loosed so would he.

Arrows soared—he did. Around the corner; his targets above on the cliff already notching for another round.

Spellblade unleashed, the bow splintered apart in his hands. The splinters struck—his footing tripped and he plummeted to his death a crack the last sound he'd ever make.

The thieves were missing.

Folmarv kicked his chocobo, jumping the bird to the side.

"Dammit!" one of the brigands swore.

He looked up. The thieves were attempting to jump him. Were they more organized, this would have been a feint and the archers would have loosed whence the Templar had shifted. But they were too slow and he broke into a run towards a nearby outcropping.

One of them cried out in pain. Meliadoul clearly striking again. But the cry was enough that he lived. Her suspicions proved right.

The rocks he arrived behind were a fair shelter. Meliadoul was some boulders forward.

An arrow protruded from her thigh.

It was not deep, he could ascertain that from what little blood splattered her dress, but she felt it with quick gasps of air and a grim resolution on her face.

Their exit looked clear. But what reaches these thieves would chase them wasn't. Couple with Meliadoul loosing her stores. They'd enough still to reach Sal Ghidos, but rewarding these brigands was unacceptable. Messam would appreciate clearing these louts, even if this was within Zeltennia borders.

The chocobos weren't being targeted. Like to keep for sale or use (though simple ineptitude was within reason). It was an advantage ready to be unleashed.

He unmounted, taking off his luggage and letting the bird walk into archer's corridor.

No arrows came.

Good.

He retrieved his shield. Well-kept. Reflective. Enough that he could gauge a rough shape of where the archers had relocated (if they had).

Only the one remained posted. Above, bowstring drawn taut and ready to fire. But if both Divine Knights moved and struck there was naught he could do. The surviving enemy had no bow, clutching a dagger gifted from elsewhere.

A trap mayhap, if these fools could think.

He signaled over to his daughter. _Off the mount._

 _Get them charging._

 _Attack after me._

She followed through with each.

The chocobos "kweh" before stampeding outwards towards the mount hosting the foes.

Folmarv followed out after, the confusion drawn attention away from him. Whence the archer saw, he loosed too quickly. Folmarv blocked with minimal effort.

A swing of Unyielding Blade from father and daughter rent back both remaining archers.

Only the sorry stated thieves remained.

To their minor credit they didn't bother to run. The chocobos would have ran them down before they took seven steps.

Folmarv marched up the earthen ramp. No need to drain himself with more magick whence simple steel would do.

They attacked as one halfway up his march. One from the front, the other leaping around his back. An attempt to encircle him alone. Such a tactic would work against a lesser man.

The frontal thief jabbed with his dagger. More to catch off-guard than strike.

Folmarv caught the stab with his hilt, stepped in, and elbowed the thief. He fell back, gasping for air.

The Grand Master turned—a thrust at the weapon of the second thief. The fool realized what was coming, jumping back—not anticipating the slope and fell.

Folmarv whirled around, sword swinging at the first. He ducked. Templar's other arm came—slower than should as pain winced through feathered shoulder. Shield struck the thief true to the head and flung him over the ramp's edge. He groaned. Not dead yet.

The Templar came about, the second thief back on his feet now. Favoring his right leg. Folmarv advanced. The thief hobbled back. Back to the wall—he swung. Clumsy and effortless to avoid. Folmarv struck and slew him with a single thrust to the heart.

He removed his blade, cleaning it as the foeman dropped dead. He marched to the final enemy, already held at swordpoint by Meliadoul.

"I give up," he groveled in the dirt.

Folmarv put him to the sword.

"Why did you do that!?" Meliadoul shouted in a panic. Her mouth ran wide at the execution. Her eyes blinked unceasingly as if she couldn't believe what she'd seen.

"Would you ride him to Sal Ghidos when our mounts carry two people in weight already? For a man who shall simply rot in prison, taking bread and water from others? If he remains in a cell, and is not recruited by the Ebon Eye or some city gang."

"Because it's difficult? 'Tis no reason to execute a man! We spared mercy for Corpse Brigade in Gariland!"

He scowled at her defiance. "This situation is not that." Folmarv pried a mythril dagger from man's cooling hands. "They curry coin to feed their greed not their stomachs. They are not revolutionaries starving for justice. They are but highwaymen better off dead. Reserve mercy for those who deserve it."

"Dead in battle yes—not like this."

"Dead men are dead all the same. By Black Death or sword death. 'Tis the one equal in this life." Turn this towards the true lesson.

"You waylay the point, lord father," she desperately refused him, "I see no righteousness in slaying man who cannot fight back."

"Nor should you."

She shifted then to bewilderment. "But you—"

"Did you stop me?"

"I could not have!"

" _You did not even try_!" he lashed out. She backed away, drawing shorter breaths. "You clamor for justice and righteousness but do not raise your sword in its defense save when convenient!" He let out a deep breath of his own. "Exactly what Ramza Beoulve claims his crime of Ziekden Fortress."

It dawned on her quickly. "This was but a test? You execute a man for a test?"

"Yes." He glared. "Virtue. Rectitude. Goodness. These draw power from the people who raise swords to champion them. Not mewling politicians or craven cowards who only speak of them."

"You would have me raise sword against you?"

"You would raise sword for cause you believe just."

Her face tightened... and she collapsed. The arrow still digging into her.

"You've been too distracted to even worry for yourself," he said. He carefully pulled it out before she treated it with cure. "Rest for a spell. I shall attend the funeral rites."

"What...?" she whispered.

"All men deserve to go before the Gods for their judgement or atonement. No matter how bereft of worth they were in life."

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Once again my apologies, dear readers. I'd like to promise the next Chapter will be swifter—a double-day update. But I know that one's gonna be plenty meaty unless I cut it very early (which may be for the best).**

 **SpiritBlade: Yes, I'll be definitely heading back to fix some of the errors and poor structuring. (Some of the Prologue stuff shames me.) But that'll be in a few days after I complete NaNo. Still, thank you for your praise and concerns. Please make sure to correct me more if you spot mistakes, that goes for everyone.**


	22. Chapter 21: Dead Men's Tale

**Chapter 21: Dead Men's Tale**

Sal Ghidos was a Trade City in name only these days. Once a border city that thrived on trade with Ordallia, it became a vital supply depot for the Fifty Years' War and then as the central base of the Ordallian counter-invasion. Its once great markets had flourished, expanded, then died. A city once considered the eastern Lesalia reduced to nothing but slums.

Trade died. As the Ordalians retreated from Ivalice's reclamation they set aflame much of the city. Ravaged whatever they could. Manses once the size of castles reduced to rubble.

Those who remained too poor or too stupid to depart for other lands. A perfect location for Ordallian insurrectionists, anti-crown revolutionaries, and the Order of the Ebon Eye to operate.

The Sal Ghidos council cared little save for scrapping what meager coin they could out of the town. Their approach was watched by no sharp eyes, only the dull tired pleading from those who could do naught but beg for some clemency.

He knew full well the futility of uplifting them with but a handful of coins. Meliadoul—bless her heart—tried, but it only redoubled their wailing and it took a burst of speed to move beyond the beggars.

In what passed for the good side of town (where only one of a building's walls was falling apart and the smell of dung and rot was faint rather than choking) they found an inn with an attached stable. The mount accommodations were terrible, barely above rummaging around outside. The hay bore clear signs of human habitation and the gsyahl greens feeders were barren.

The Blackrams and Palamedes were to meet tomorrow. 'Twould be effortless to locate a warhost that considerable, so an arranged meeting point hadn't been needed. But in due consideration of their surroundings, such should have. No doubt rusty knives would try for their backsides through the night. Bitter amusement they were safer outside walls, at the beck and call of marauding monsters.

The inside of the Inn was furnished sparse. Three tables, two chairs and two people behind the bar that looked like they'd seen Saint Ajora walk for all the surprise on their face.

"Come, come in!" the man of the pair and his booming voice called out. "What'll it be?"

The floorboards creaked under their heavy steps. And under light ones once carried goods was set. Parts of it had been replaced by what was clearly broken apart tables and chairs. Small scorches of fire damage clung to a few bits, and the stairs up missed three steps.

"One room for the night. As safe meals and drink you can manage," said Folmarv.

"I mislike the implication ser!" the man slammed his hands on the bar. Wonder it did not break.

"I've little concern for your misbegotten pride. Provide or we shall provide elsewhere with our patronage."

Slapped with sense, he grumbled. "Very well. Merial, see our guests to room 1."

"I'd prefer the room overlooking your stables."

"That is the room."

"Very good."

The barmaid, waitress or his daughter, left her place near the counter. She was a short girl, more malnourished than young, yet still the look of a few summers Meliadoul's junior. Her black hair was a short-shaved mess, like to save coin on any sort of care. Her cheekbones were slight-bit protruding, but only to a keen eye. A simple one-color green dress with a whitish apron around it. The colors for both were fading, but no tears were evident so some care was shown for what she owned. "If you would follow me, honored guests," she said with a squeaky voice. "I shall take our trunks off your hands."

"We shall carry our own." The girl was like to drop with her skinny arms. Just as was possible for the storage containers to fall through the above floor.

"Of course." She nodded and took the lead up the steps. The Templars followed, Folmarv holding off until the girl was fully above before crossing up by himself. The stairs buckled under the weight, but stood strong enough. Meliadoul came up after just as safe.

The upper hall was only a single corridor, seven rooms to the right, six on the left. The room one right across from the stairs. A window to the right overlooking the stables. The holes below showing their mounts still safe.

The assistant produced a key and opened the well-worn door. Inside of the room was small, with windows forward and to the right overlooking the stables again. Two beds stood against the left wall, a table underneath the right window, with no chairs. No other furnishings. The room was on a slight slant, he realized as he walked further inside.

"This shall do," he said. He laid his trunk down carefully as not to stress the floorboards any further. "How many sets of keys are there?"

"Your set and the owner's set." She handed over the key.

And like the other not guarded within a mythril safe. They'd need to prepare for sudden intruders then. "We shall settle then. Tell the owner we shall descend for dinner within the hour."

"Your orders, then?"

"Fish soup," he said. Little chance of fresh meat in these territories and he not feasted upon North Ice Sea fish since war's end. "With water only."

"I... shall have a loaf of bread," said Meliadoul. Like to eat her rations rather than trust the cooks here. "Oh, and milk."

"Thank you for your patronage. Please mention if you need for anything."

A clean bed would be a waste of time. "We shall."

The girl slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her with a satisfying lock. He tested it himself to make sure—it did seem solid. They would brace it with their cargo regardless.

"I cannot believe you would consume the food here."

"I have survived eating naught but grass and your mother's cooking while she awash with anger. Save poison, I may stomach anything."

She laughed at the story. "I-I cannot imagine mother cooking."

"She was fair. Nothing as compared to a chef of the royal palace or a Duke's personal retainer. But filling and perfect for her served."

"I miss her."

"You had your chance to join her in Lionel." The Gryphons were less illustrious than the Templar, but still a fine order.

"My place is in the Templarate." No hesitation. Good.

With little else to talk of, the two settled their sleeping arrangements and watch system. Folmarv would take the bed closer to the entrance, the first to be targeted by any intruders. The windows were unlike to be a concern, but as precaution they were trapped should anyone venture through.

After enough time, the two headed downstairs (Folmarv making sure to lock the room). The servant girl saw them and hurried back behind the kitchen doors. Returning with the tankards and food. The chairs had been pulled to the table nearest the bar.

"Your meals, honored guests," she laid them down perfectly. At the very least she could carry these small things.

"Oh honored guests," the innkeeper said. His big red beard swaying with each word. "Mayhap you remember to pay before indulging yourself."

It'd been an age since he paid for services—it'd completely cleared his mind to actually do so. Yet he retained enough to threaten them with. "Of course," he answered. He retrieved his pouch. "The cost?"

"500 gil."

Meliadoul barely kept from spitting her milk out.

"I think the brigands we slew on our way over demand less," he dryly replied.

"Greens for your mounts make the bulk of it," said the innkeeper. "Too few come by bird these days, naught but a handful of nobles carry their food."

The workers certainly weren't eating themselves fat. "Then I shall have a word with them."

"I'd like to see you try. They're too busy worrying about ghost stories to give a damn about anyone in this rotten town."

"Ghost stories?" said Meliadoul, intrigued.

"Aye, couple years back, when the war was still goin', the Sal Ghidos council gets it in their head to hire some knights to guard the town. Real trusted types, heroes and such. Names'em the 'Sable Swords' and they go about keepin' order and such. Course that don't go well over with the local bandit boss. Army's too busy with Ordllia routes to care about anything goin' on elsewhere. Well, not the Sable Swords. Dem fifteen raise a holy terror on the bandit boss, y'hear. This gets him mighty mad so he lays himself a little trap. Tricks'em all to going over to Death's Gorge and guts the lot of'em."

More victims of crown greed.

"But thing is, all these years, you get travelers comin' that way say they be seeing figures moving around in black cloaks. Spooks the people 'round here something fierce."

It was not impossible for it to be restless spirits. But there was a far more mundane answer. "The council is worried they're the Ebon Eye, aren't they?"

"You some kinda savant my most honored guest. That's exactly what rumor is."

So Barom Grimms and Palamedes' plan became readily apparent.

"Thank you for the tale."

The rest of the meal went by in silence (save the natural effects of eating). Payment was sent, and the Templar returned to their room. The same as it was.

"Lord Father we should see for ourselves."

"Oh?" She proposed before he could order. "Why?" he sought her reasoning.

"If they're with the Order of the Ebon Eye, best we make sure to focus Palamedes and Baron Grimms. If they're common brigands all the same. But restless spirits? Best handled by Church and Church alone."

Scouting was not an expertise of either Templar. But the inhabitants had been spotted well-enough by passerby. "We lack Phoenix Downs for assured removal of any undead." One death was naught enough the first, ending such abominations for true would take specialized equipment and training they lacked in abundance.

"Aye, but I've enough stamina for raise magick aplenty—with aplenty ethers as well."

Those were to be restricted for emergency spell usage. "We shall wait for Palamedes and the Blackrams. If naught the Ebon Eye or such, we shall go in as three Templars." They were ahead of days journey to Berveria. Spending an extra or two here would not damage the schedule. If it did, it mattered little. He made it, he could change it to his whims. Like a return visit to Besselat...

"I disagree," she said. "If it is the Ebon Eye they shall be all the more wary of their position should a host of Blackrams arrive in town. We may well find the Death's Gorge an entrapment for us on tomorrow's eve."

A well-thought reason. "Our scouting shall do little then, if they prepare for an Order any traps we see or lives we take shall be a pittance of a whole."

"Take a prisoner then, make him talk."

"Men of conviction break naught easy."

"An assumption. But I bear witness to men of conviction balk. As I meander in mine own so recently." She furrowed her brow at the lesson.

'Twas not the direction he expected this to go, but she proved her point. "You hold fast to your decision?"

"Yes, Lord Father." She did not waver in the slightest.

He grunted in acknowledgement. "Settle your stomach and stretch your arms. We've Sable Sword to seek."

* * *

Their approach had first been on chocobo, the reining the birds to a tree well out of view of the Gorge's entrance. They kept a slower pace, lest the metal they wore sounded their presence too early.

Death's Gorge proved apt-named as the Templars approach was greeted by the greenery dying and a repugnant smell of carrion that hung in the air. Enough corpses had piled in the wastes to stain the rocks so deep not even constant bellowing winds could rip the stink away.

How many Ordallian bodies filled the Gorge? Did their families know they'd been dragged from home, dumped in a foreign land? A curious thought for sure, but one he pushed out of his mind shortly after. There would be a few more corpses in the valley well enough.

Descended into the gorge proper now, a strange fog began to build. Curious, as there had naught been proper rainfall in several days. A touch of magick could begat such a blinding change, but.

He warned Meliadoul to keep her footing secure. If any living braved this valley there would be settled paths, but that was beyond their ken at the moment.

Was this a random occurrence or a constant? If the latter, how had any traveler seen black cloak when the ground beneath their feet was but an assumption.

This wore the trappings of a ploy more than ever before. "We retreat," he whispered. "There is naught to find in these confounded mists."

Meliadoul gave but a nod back. The two Templars retraced what could be seen of their steps only... they ended. And with no escape from the gorge. His accursed hunch was true, 'twas some manner of magick surrounding them.

He drew blade, Meliadoul did the same. Using his sheath he etched a small path into the hard dirt as they walked forward. Moisture clung to his rune blade, droplets of water forming and falling down the metal. Unseasonably chill after all the harsh summer suns.

Their path came circled, as they returned to the starter of his sheath mark. Some magick was about to confuse the senses as well, for true did he walk a straight path and felt no change in elevation.

"Meliadoul, ward us as best you may."

She put upon them both the magicks of protect. Whatever formidable wizard lay in their ranks could ignore sure ward, but any advantage they could must must be used.

"We make for the walls, let us follow them out." The slope should be guide enough once there. Folmarv retrieved a few gil and tossed the coins into the mist. A few small clinks echoed back. But no indication of striking canyon walls. A few more tosses after steps forward produced naught but the same.

Not even coin on the ground as they walked. He laid a trail behind them next, and then retraced the steps.

Nothing.

This was more than just a simple cantrip. This was extraplaner magick! Cletienne's specialty. No mere Ebon Eye mage could fathom something as complex as this. So their mysterious foemen than became Ordallian spies or restless spirits. Foul matter either way, but the former would cut the rope of Templarate long-term planning.

Those matters could be set aside. For now they needed to concentrate on an escape.

"I've an idea," said Meladoul. "Coin may be snatched and dirt moved. So slack the ground's thirst with potions and glass."

"This is more than figures in the dark swiping what we leave behind," he said.

"Nay, more than that father; the liquids of the potion would sting any undead and the glass is too fragmented to be moved swiftly."

A well-thought plan. With one flaw. "We've but a half-dozen potions." Any more would have sounded their approach.

"It will have to do."

That it would.

Three apiece; Folmarv poured the potion fluid as they continued forward. At the last drop, he shattered it behind them. The second went same as the first. But they'd yet to backtrack. So, mayhap it was simple trickery and he'd reacted fiercely.

By third potion's end something materialized from the mists: a cave.

Whoever was conjuring their predicament had grown uneasy with the Templarate strategy it seemed.

"Are they inviting us in?" asked Meliadoul. She stepped in closer to the darkened passage.

"A trap." He looked at the ground, the canyon walls. They could be followed out now. Not unless his earlier indication of high-grade time magicks was true. "We lack means of lighting our way. We retreat for now."

Meliadoul gave a slow nod—that turned to widen surprise and she shouted," Watch out!"

Folmarv leapt forward and heard the air sliced behind him. Turning about he was face-to-face with a black-caped man long dead. Tattered and broke of body and arm; sword rent in half and chipped to uselessness. With a rotten skull it slavered out, "Away with you!"

Folmarv unleashed a mighty slash from above and cleaved the foul creature in twain. But its unholy magicks began to piece together the exposed bones once again.

A dozen such figures emerged from the fog. Chanting in some demonic words hungry for whatever drove them.

"We hold at the mouth," he ordered. "End any I strike down."

Three rushed at him as Meliadoul began her chant behind. Their swords fared little better than the first's, but three more joined the fry shortly after. By sheer volume their attacks would break through.

As be parried one blade, blocked another and deflect a third with a vambrace. A fourth banged against his greaves, a fifth clattered against his wrist and the sixth narrowly missed stabbing his head.

The raise spell sprang from Meliadoul, curing magicks countering the unholy nature of what kept the corpse moving. Its fusing stopped and it clattered apart. Just another pile of bones.

But the seventh, eighth and ninth knights joined to the fray now. There was naught a single opening to take safety.

So let risk be taken instead! "Meliadoul!" he cried out. "Focus cure spells on me at once instead!"

Before she could argue, before she could wonder, Folmarv dropped his guard and went on full offense. Their broken and rusted mails could not withstand his blows. The chipped blades they swung with could only do so much against his armor. And though they would hit a joint or cause bruising he held the greater stamina with the protect magick still covering him.

The cure spell from his daughter enveloped him, closed what wounds were torn open by the old blades. The white lights burned the abominations in righteous fury.

Even still, as he broke apart their numbers and his wounds mended, it was not enough. Protect faded and scratches became cuts. Cuts went back to scratches, but a base cure spell could only do so much. He was whittled apart by suicidal strikes no living man would consider.

He'd broken near all their number, but blood seeped from every joint he had. In fog and foggy vision, his own defenses moved shallow and the few remaining abominations dove for him.

The first of the last he battered aside with his shield, taking the second's blow on his defenses. But the third went low, stabbing the blade into a weakness near the knee.

He brought his shield down with a mighty crunch on the skull but his position fell terrible and on his back he looked up at the last undead thing ready to plunge its blade into his eye.

Only for it to shatter into pieces from an Unyielding Blade strike.

Meliadoul had saved him again.

His daughter rushed forward, crushing the bones of what she could and hurling potions to end the threat of those reforming all the quicker. Soon, only the breath of the living remained.

A light shone from the cave, Templar attention drawn to it. Both aimed their blades to the ready, but no further undead came.

"See to it," Folmarv said as he pushed himself against cave wall. "Be careful." The blade still stuck within would need to wait 'til situation had settled. If Meliadoul had resorted to potion use, her magick stamina had run its course.

"Yes." She eyed his wound, but orders were more important. If some mad mage remained within he needed to be dealt with as swiftly as able.

She proceeded within slowly, until she was out of his sight. Footsteps echoed back to him—and a gasp. His hand clenched his sword ever tighter. But her same steps came back, proceeding her return to view. Free hand clutching sometime glowing—a stone.

It could not be!

She held it up: shining golden, shaped of lion's tooth, inscribed with the Zodiac symbol for Leo.

* * *

 **Author's Note: That end is a bit of a mess, yeah. I'll definitely be fixing that when I'm not frazzled at day's end. But I wanted to get this out since I didn't yesterday.**

 **Sethlas: Thank you for your Review. Soon, soon. The trip's almost done. Ramza will be getting his own adventure with Barich and Beowulf hehehe.**


	23. Chapter 22: Strings

**Chapter 22: Strings  
**

Sword met with shield; spear struck ground. Magick fell from the heavens.

Delita's first return to sword training was beset by combat against two instructors.

Isilud could not contain his master for long, and the senior Nightblade soon dug heel into shoulder.

Alfredo remained the monster she always was, mixing and matching blows effortlessly while draining away arm strength with her Ark Knight magicks.

Ramza had resorted to using black magicks to garner some attempt at advantage, but 'twas for nothing as all three young men were beaten into the ground.

They needed Meliadoul back if they were to make this work. Delita with a fully-rested arm and not him pushing himself would aid immensely as well.

His friend threw the training blade away, drawing everyone's attention as it clanged near the courtyard's edge.

"I've no need to train with this dullard steel!" said Delita. "I am knight's apprentice no more!"

"You've not even a week out of bed under your own power, Delita," Ramza attempted to placate him. "You need to regain your strength before we work."

"I've no desire to be a Templar either, Ramza" he bitterly spat.

"You cannot swing a sword of vengeance if you cannot swing a sword!"

"I'll find it my own way," he looked at the bemused officers, "not from the gelded hands of those who offered no other answer."

There was no getting through that rightfully stubborn head of his.

A Templar enlisted ran in, taking breaths in heavy gasps. He was a messenger from elsewhere, bearing important news and ran to Alfredo, handing over a scroll.

Her and Claudino's eyes fettered about the writing while everyone else rested. Slowly anger reached her face, her hands trembled with rage and she nigh tore the message apart!

She settled instead for crumbling it into a ball.

"Go find Barich, I think he's in the mess," she ordered the messenger who ran off. "Fortune favors you three; you have a mission to undertake."

"I am not your puppet," said Delita.

"Fine, lay here useless, let these two be the saviors of a shipful of slaves."

"Slaves?" said Ramza. Slavery had been illegal for centuries in Ivalice!

"We've word from the Gryphon Knights of Lionel that they've tracked a cargo ship filled to its holds with slaves bound northward."

Delita stood up. "Why haven't the Gryphons moved on it then?" questioned Delita. "'Tis but another lie and trap."

"A direct fight risks the victims being slain. This needs to be handled with faces unfamiliar to southern traders."

"Or sent to our deaths. I'll have no part of this." He turned and walked away.

Ramza jumped up and hurried after. Catching up to him in a nearby empty corridor. "Delita, hold!" He grabbed his friend's arm. "Do not turn your back on this. I beg of you."

"Where was that begging towards your lord brother?"

"I..." He couldn't even look him in the eye.

Delita pulled his arm free. "I've no desire to be at noble's beck and call any longer."

"They are not like my lord brothers."

"We once thought the same!" Delita snapped. "We thought them true and honest men who fought for righteousness. Heed my words Ramza, these Templars shall show their depravity soon enough."

"Where then will we go, Delita?" Ramza put to question. "Scamper back to Gallione? Make way to the Southern Sky?"

"There is no we, Ramza."

"There is!" He stomped his foot. The small echo in the hall. "

"I assume Fulke and the others thought the same?"

He froze.

"You abandoned them for your own sake. So alike your brothers it seems."

Ramza punched him right across the jaw the sudden impact knocking Delita off his feet. "I'm nothing like them!" Realization poured upon him the blink after. "I—Delita I!" There was no excuse. Even when he dropped to his knees there were no excuse.

Delita grunted, and nursed his jaw. "Dealing with any commons who gets in your way. So alike your brothers."

The repeat stabbed to the heart.

Delita walked away.

It hurt. Even though his whole body was sore (from bed-induced aches to training blows) the point where Ramza had just struck him hurt the most.

As it should. He'd just goaded his friend into attacking him. For what?

For nothing.

Damnation he should be clean with Ramza but every time he saw his face it just reminded him everything.

These ghosts would not be quelled until Dycedarg and Zalbaag's blood dripped from his blade.

"Excuse me," a girl said. He looked back; she was completely unfamiliar but wore church robes. "You are requested to visit the Cathedral Hall at your earliest convenience."

"I've no time for prayer or whatever this is to be."

She fussed with her robes a bit. "You're... you're summoned by His Holiness himself."

The High Confessor called for him!?

* * *

The High Confessor's office was a grand affair. Much to its owners shame. Carpeted with the deepest reds, banners of silk bearing Mullonde's signet draped the walls. Gold-plated stonework and the finest wooden furnishing outside the royal palace. Artefacts as old as the Cataclysm, jewels and chalices or papers blessing Saint Ajora. Four stoic Templars guarded the room inside, with a half-dozen more outside. The slightest hint of disrespect and they would descend upon the blasphemer with all the fury the Gods visited upon the Holy Ydoran Empire when it executed Saint Ajora.

Young Delita Heiral now knelt before the High Confessor seated upon his throne. Introductions past. He was the sole sight out of place in the glory that surrounded him.

"Do you know why I have summoned you, my son?"

"No."

Already did the Templarate glare at him. Hands held steady, but ready to draw steel.

"We have not yet spoken since your recovery."

"Do you speak to every commons that arrives? Or simply because I am with Ramza?"

Templar patience wore thin,

"What is it that you think?"

"What does it matter what I think? I am but a commoner, after all."

The shield of self-deprecation was wielded well.

"Leave us." Confusion wore across the face of all others. The Templars stood like statues, trying to understand the simple command. "You tire me by accosting me to repeat: Leave. Us."

The Templars left swiftly. Leaving only the confused Herail kneeling.

"Tell me, my son. What is it you want in life?" The boy remained silent. "Very well, then let me presume a bit. You want the blood of Ramza's lord brothers."

"No."

He ignored the bald-faced lie. "What then, after? Say you end their schemes, end their ambitions. By some twist of luck you live. What then?"

The boy kept his lips tight.

"Dycedarg and Zalbaag's mistakes do not end with them. Do you think Duke Larg will not repeat their errors? In Zeltennia, the Order of the Ebon Eye undergoes the safe cause as the Corpse Brigade. Commons trampled underfoot without concern or care."

His silent mask began to crack. Thoughts for a future beyond vengeance had not occurred to him. Not yet.

"It is an endless, bitter cycle that has plagued Ivalice's history. No matter how many are struck down by assassin's dagger, poison's kiss or time's march, they continue to oppress and scheme and kill for the little slacks of greed."

"Then why has not Gods messengers or they themselves put a stop to it!" he finally broke! "You seat yourselves on throne of gold and silk while people die. How many lives would your poverty for a day save?"

"Mayhap enough to feed a city's slums for a year and half. Two at most."

"Then you should."

Marcel smiled at the young lad. "The Templarate would have your tongue for asking of such."

"You would not have sent them away had you wanted such."

Perceptive too. Good. "Delita Heiral, you cannot change a broken system by removing a few broken parts. It needs to be rebuilt. What works, and what doesn't. 'Twas why the Corpse Brigade, the Ebon Eye, were doomed for failure. They sought only to destroy, not rebuild."

"There is naught in this system worth saving."

"Ramza Beoulve."

The boy's eyes twitched in response but his silence returned.

"Mortal men such as we must live in our gray and unsteady lives. White is for the Gods and black for Lucavi. Marquis Limberry lives in unsteady home to fund his people. Count Minamas, whose vaults overflow with gil, overflows charities with fresh food and clothing."

"I had not considered as such."

"Everyone worries, my son. The royal family, dukes, marquises, counts, viscounts barons, knights, commons. Even myself."

"I care little for the pettiness of which coat a noble is keen to wear on the morrow while people starve."

Marcel gave a gentle chuckle at that. "So it goes. What right does the royal family have to complain while they sit in Lesalia? What does a duke complain while they control a province? And such. So, Delita Heiral, what do you complain of here, in a meeting with the High Confessor while people starve?"

He coiled back at the realization. "'Tis not nearly the same!" he pleaded otherwise. "I did not ask for this!"

"None ask for the circumstances of their birth. But would it in your power to trade places gladly with a man being struck by knife now?" The boy seethed. "You are correct. 'Tis not true. But to lose empathy with others because they are better off? Or worse? All men have their worries. You are the same. Do not cut yourself off from the love of people, and the Gods."

"I need no lesson on whom to love."

Marcel sighed. "The Gods love us all my son. At least one man here would claim you his truest brother. For the sake of others, for his sake, and yours. For the sake of Ivalice. I beseech you, do not abandon ."

"I make no promises."

"War comes to Ivalice, my son. It shall need people to raise arms for its people while Lions fight for crown. Would Dycedarg and Zalbaag felled, would you then raise sword for righteous cause?"

"What cause is righteous these days?"

"Being a shield for the people. Being a blade when they have need of one. A voice of reason against dissent. A man who would see wrongs righted and corruption cleansed." Marcel tilted his head forward, just a tad. His eyes met the intensity in the boy's. "My son, would you abandon people in need? Will you do more with us, than alone? I ask of you, shall you be a Templar?"

Such a decision was not to be rushed into. But the blazing convictions of the boy led to no other answer. "Yes." A pause. "Your Holiness."

"Good." Another useful piece had been acquired. "Go with the Grace of the Gods."

"Yes, Your Holiness." He departed the room without another word.

The High Confessor wallowed in his success. A commoner Templar to sway common heart. Machanist. Beoulve. Tengille. Duroi. Elmdore. So many names of valor and talent came to him. Taking Ivalice grew easier each day.

* * *

In his room, as Delita prepared his gear for travel, his mind burned the conversation with the High Confessor into every dark corner of his memory.

The Church of Glabados was just as sickeningly full of self-interest as Larg, Dycedarg and every damnable noble on this rotted kingdom (save one). With a key difference: this one believed Delita had value.

His anger would not abate, but he could hide it. Nourish it in secret. The Church would put its plan into motion and he full well intended to take advantage of it.

He had no plan beyond seeing Dycedarg and Zalbaag's heads free their bodies. But now... now something was stirring in his head. A new Ivalice, a better Ivalice. One with no need of nobles or Church.

Let them think their strings attached to him. He would dance to their pulls, yes. Gain their trust and confidence. Let them do all the work, and take it all! He would be no man's puppet evermore.


	24. Chapter 23: Church Knights

**Chapter 23: Church Knights**

Delita's sudden arrival aboard the _Clarity of Faith_ came as a welcome surprise to Ramza. He happily took his friends apology in stride and the news the High Confessor spoke with him as a sign that they ere fated to meet like this. Isilud gave his own greetings, and Barich just grunted and ignored them, as customary for him.

They spent the first few hours bringing Delita up to task on the order ahead of them. The first matter of business would be for Barich to rendezvous with the Gryphon Knights in a local tavern, Mermaid's Kiss. The younger Templars would depart without any of their affiliated trappings. They were to remain unknown to the eyes of the slavers. While Barich and the Gryphons drew the wary eye, the three would secure the cargo holds before a full assault.

It was a dangerous task. Making sure the enemy crew didn't execute the people, or hold them hostage was the most important part of the whole operation. There was precious little known about the ship they were assaulting (even its name). If the crew were veteran marines they would be hard pressed to hold strong against them with only shield and sword. (Very good well all three knew how to swim, should it come to that.)

Talk did turn to how exactly the Church came about this news. How had such a large shipment gone unnoticed in a province as safe as Lionel. Where had the captives come from?

It stank something awful, but such were any matters concerning slavery.

They hashed out the basics of a battle plan over the trip. Ramza, as the most accomplished white mage among them, would serve as the primary healer. Once he could no longer tap the arcane, Isilud would switch, than Delita. If combat lingered more than all three could manage... there's was little to be done but rely on monk chakras.

Training also continued, rehabilitation mostly, for Delita; Isilud hoping around the ship like a dragoon, and Ramza practicing vigilantly with white magick and martial arts.

Barich barely left his quarters. For the good of it all. Alfredo despised the man and the weeks preceding the voyage had made Ramza quite agree. Vile nobles should be removed from their station. But tearing apart all of Ivalice's ranking structure to do so would cause more harm than mend.

The heat of summer was battled by the constant breezes of the sea. Days passed over their voyage.

The Port City of Warjilis earned its name thrice-over by the time the ship docked. Rows of docks stretched along the coast for an hour before they settled in; continued beyond what they could see. Ships of all shapes and sizes berthed in port, while plenty more were set at sea.

People moved on land only seen otherwise in the most full of markets. Stalls and vendors lined around the area peddling their wears to incoming sailors, travelers or locals come to check the deals. Only Dorter could possibly be this city's equal in all of Ivalice.

Barich descended to dry land first. As part of the plan he was to meet with the Gryphons first, and an hour later the three of them would follow. Their trail followed his first to learn the tavern's location, before letting them on their way and his inside. Well enough time to walk along the crowds and learn what they could as well.

Little of it was of relevant use, but presented interesting knowledge of local culture. The casino ship _Blackjack_ was schedule to dock before month's end. The "golden voice of Warjilis", the songstress Anna was said to be involved in a secretive romance. A labyrinthine on city's outskirts had recently been overtaken by a pack of red mousses. Psalmba Exports would be debuting chocobons, a newest specialty chocolate whence the ship _Highwind_ made port.

It was an exciting city.

But one housing slavery as well.

They spoke no direct questions. Not for this. But there were ships to be avoided in the harbor. Too many guards for too large a company.

A name: Baert Trading Company.

'Twas all they did learn. Naught anything, for true, as they would but hear it soon enough. There was something to be taken from learning it from local lips though.

Time did as time does and the time of the meeting came apparent. They ventured to the tavern. The outside was as typical for such a building, but somewhat larger than Ramza had grown accustomed in comparison to Gariland or Dorter. More people, as well, coming and going and not the usual belligerent drunkards he'd encountered before. The reasoning for choosing such a place became more apparent.

The inside matched the quality from out. The tables were nigh-filled to capacity but no man stood on their feet drinking. Barmaids went about their job, unharassed by customers. The woodwork was fresh (not all the tables being of the same make), but all were sturdy and stable.

Barich sat at a cornered table, two unknown men seated opposite him. A slight nod invited the three young men over, and they took up seating as well. Greetings and names were exchanged between the six right after.

Ser Beowulf Cadmus. A Captain in Lionel's Gryphon Knights and the head of this investigation into slavery operations. A man a few summers Zalbaag's senior. He was a dashing man with a wide temple and blonde brushed back lovingly.

Ser Aliste Rosenheim. Beowulf's Lieutenant in the Gryphons. With a darker, grayish set of hair with a few strands sticking over his face. While Beowulf held a smile, Aliste's was more prevalent towards a frown.

"We are among Gryphons, Templars and trusted men here," said Beowulf after introductions. "Speak freely about whatever concerns you have with our plans."

'Twould explain the more secure decor the tavern held itself too.

"Our target is the cargo ship: _Endeavor_. Our reports suggest it contains 200 prisoners bound for slavery in Fovoham should we not put a stop to it."

Two hundred people!? The three of them exchanged looks amongst one another. Clear on his friend's faces they thought the same. 'Twas thrice as many men than Delita and he put to death of Corpse Brigade.

This would be a small way of atoning for those actions.

"Why haven't the Gryphons acted previously regarding this?" asked Delita.

"Their targets are vagrants and slum-dwellers. Few care to report to Gryphons whence those go missing; fewer Gryphons care to report to their superiors about missing commons."

Delita grunted in disgust and folded his arms. "So now that some noble ponce has been taken the Templarate is called in?"

"I like this one," said Barich and smirked at the situation.

"Were it true, we Gryphons would be laying siege to the ship while you remained in Mullonde," said Aliste.

"Nay, those who were taken were commons workers belonging to the Baert Trading Company," said Beowulf.

Baert? 'Twas an awful number of rumors milling in Warjilis' streets that they were involved in slave trade themselves. "Talk is they deal the same trade we've come to stop," said Ramza.

"Rumors nothing more," Beowulf hastily answered. "Baert has contributed heavily to transport routes and local orphanages. His workers speak naught but high of the man."

Reasoning came clear as cloudless sky. They weren't here simply to rescue the slaves, but the Baert-man in particular. With Templar and Gryphon support, convince the man he'd be safe to turn on his masters. Presuming, of course, he knew anything in the first place.

"What is our assault plan?" asked Ramza.

"Gryphons and Templars shall remain nearby without colors. An initial team composed of myself, Aliste, Barich with a number of others, shall accost the _Endeavor_ 's perimeter guard. We will draw their attention, letting your team of three slip on board and locate the slaves. Whence you've secured them, single to us as such. The first team shall rush to your aid while our remaining forces secure the ship."

The same plan, as briefed before. But with tavern secure, 'twas less required of anonymity than their initial presumptions. "'Tis a reason we are requested when more veteran Templars would do?"

"'Tis easier to slip aboard as unknown cabin boy rather than full-fledged crew."

"I would think a ship hoisting slaves knows full-well its crew."

Delita and Isilud nodded in agreement. The latter spoke, "What more to this is there? Cletienne would breach hold swifter than any of us yet he remains in Mullonde."

The Gryphons exchanged glances of their own before the captain answered. "We were informed you knew whom we seek."

"Whom?"

"A young man by name of Deitrich Diver."

"Deitrich!" Ramza and Delita both shot from their seats saying his name. Isilud near jumped as well.

He'd not said full names of his akademy-mates to one soul. Not even the High Confessor knew!

Which meant Deitrich did. He attached himself to the name: Ramza Beoulve.

However this happened, they would find with all-due haste. The whereabouts of Pelinne as well.

"We'll do it," said Delita as both settled back down.

"What wondrous camaraderie." Barich rolled his eyes.

They ignored him, as did Beowulf, who continued. "Here," he pulled a set of parchments from his pouch, "prints of ships of the _Endeavor_ 's class. Marked where the slaves are likely to be. Study them for your plan of attack."

"Aye," Ramza took them. Displayed for all three to see. Plans already whirled about his head how best to approach. They would save Deitrich and two hundred other people. There was no other way about it.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I've won NaNo, so I can actually go back and start fixing the so-very-many mistakes of earlier chapters. Already did some changes to the Prologue and Chapter 1. If you dear readers notice any errors, feel free to tell me. Help make it better, please.  
**

 **Also I misspelled Beowulf's name every single time this Chapter. Muscle memory kept making me hit "u" for Beoulve.**


	25. Chapter 24: Friendship

**Chapter 24: Friendship**

The preparations for their infiltration to the _Endeavor_ had finished as sun dipped down on its journey. Leaving the three to reinforce the planning in their minds until moon rose and night with it.

Plan went to motion as the three, clothed only in linens, dipped into the harbor's waters. It chilled to the bone, even in spit of summer warmth and some worry was spent that they'd clatter teeth before rising.

But there was no retreating from this; though the plan had just began its execution 'twas no other one to replace it.

They swam towards the _Endeavor_ ; darkness their ally, moonlight their enemy. The Gryphons had assured them no vessel was clear for departure but they still gave wide-enough distance to the anchored ships.

The Endeavor came to light, patrols on dock, on ship all carrying torches. It made it clear where each and every one of the people they needed to avoid was.

Their reinforcements came into view not long after. One holding torch, five Gryphons and a Templar marched towards the ship's ramp. They drew all attention all eyes. Fire above turned and looked at the commotion of the script playing below them.

This was the time.

The three swam over to the ship, below the ship's gallery. There was one guard above, facing way of the dock. Raised voices in the night covered their approach well.

Now was the tricky part.

With Isilud's insistence he was "no ninja" they needed to be clever with their entrance.

Luck smiled on them, as they had access to deep funds and a trade city. So they settled for the next best solution.

They rose Isilud on their shoulders, difficult as it was, for him to step off and float.

The winged boots worked perfectly.

With some semblance of land to work off of, Isilud leapt unto the veranda with little sound. Brandishing a kunai, he impaled the man's throat, holding the man and torch as he bled, and died. He may not be a ninja but he knew their blades.

Isilud tied rope around railing and tossed it below, the two left to swim climbing up after.

Good so far. But now was the difficult part.

They retrieved the spare equipment they carried aboard in small, water-proof trunks and wrung out their clothes as best as able. A potion and phoenix down apiece; mage's cloak for Ramza and eleven cloaks for Delita and Isilud. Mythril shields, headbands and jujitsu gis worn by all. In addition to a pistol to serve as the spark to send the Gryphons to war.

A normal battle would naught require such specific arrangements, simply knight's plate, but 'tis far from ordinary this.

Gear settled, Isilud tied the torch to rail and propped the body to mimick the station. The three crept inside the room.

No one.

Not a surprise with their attack going unnoticed, but 'twas a worry still.

They followed the ship's prints etched into their memory. Leaving the room (carefully checking for enemies as they did) and slipping down the nearest set of stairs. Water trailed behind them, but 'twas little to be done about that with all the haste demanded of them. Shouts would rouse any sleeping crew well-soon enough, dulled by hull and walls or no.

They reached the belowdecks where the prisoners were presumed to be without any further incident, but a peer around corner caught first sight of another man.

Coming this far made clear the majority of the ship's crew must be absent to understaff the halls thus far. It gave some semblance of hope their foemen would be easier to hold, at least.

Though that was for its due time. Now they an enemy at the far end of the hall to eliminate silently. Doors lined each side, rife with dangerous unknowns. Small advantage he faced away. But with shouts dulled inside as they were, chance ran higher of him hearing their approach.

Ramza cursed himself for not learning the repose spell to induce magickal slumber during his mystic training. He'd have to relay on more permanent solutions now.

He indicated 'twas his alone. He crept into the hall, slow at first, with muffled footsteps. What little sound made covered by shout and ship's rocking.

Halfway through the man indicated a turn—Ramza burst into a sprint. The sudden heavy steps spurred his turn—sighted him, eyes widen in surprise, mouth open, hands fumbling for dagger at side.

"In—!" Ramza punched the man in the mouth. Meaty crunch replacing warning. Sloppy footfalls the man fell back, holding to his bleeding mouth whilst Ramza struck again. He tackled the man to the floor, knocking the dagger away, covering mouth and throat.

He struggled and gurgled—attempted to bite him even. His feet beat heavy against the wood but he found no relief from the grim man strangling him. His eyes fell heavy, and a physical repose was imposed on him.

He'd done it.

Ramza pulled himself off the man and checked the bite marks on his hands. They'd not broken skin but stung with the man's crooked teeth imposed on his flesh all the same. He may need a wash of antidote to cleanse himself of any toxins in the man's fetid mouth. Was more a weapon than the dagger laying nearby.

But with that on mind... Ramza retrieved the fallen tool and used it to end the man's life with a quick stab through the throat. Using the man's clothes to staunch any bleeding from leaving a trail.

A dirty execution. For all his attempts at high morals things like this were a necessary at times. They could waste no time binding him for when he regained his wits.

It did not make swallowing any easier.

Delita and Isilud came up behind, nods and grim stares like him. They helped move the body to a dark corner nearby before they all took path back to their goal. Lives to save mattered more than one endangering them.

Ramza kept the knife.

No other guards were along their path. 'Twas too good luck. Something was amiss, all three agreed.

They remained alert as they neared the presumed slave holds. Yet no more met to them. Simply a door—locked, of course. But required no key to open. 'Twas but a simple latch.

Ramza undid it, and slowly pried the door open. Shields raised, flank covered. This was it.

It hit him in the face like a punch and he nearly fell flat on his back to stop it.

The smell.

He'd never sniffed something so vilely terrible in his life and it took everything he had not to add to it with some vomit of his own.

It was every festered wound, open latrine, rotted corpse and unwashed sweat-filed body he'd ever borne displeasure to smell combined.

Thrice that and he still couldn't accurately describe it.

Delita and Isilud soon joined him in barely keeping their dinners down.

Whatever inhumanity within awaited was already poisoning them.

They moved their headbands down to cover their noses as they popped open the door some more.

Hell lay inside.

People stacked like cargo, nigh-naked all of them, starved thin, far down near as the ship was long. Blood, sweat, tears and worse dripped from the rows they were lashed and chained too.

Gods above, who could do this to their fellow man?

The few closest looked at them, eyes empty of any hope. They did not even condemn them. Empty and lifeless, more so than undead he and Delita had faced in the siedge weald on their return from the Sand Rat's Sietch.

The stench was even worse as they entered the room, if such a thing was possible. Isilud manned the door while Ramza and Delita searched the prisoners for their old friend.

'Twas difficult, with the various cruft ruining hair coloring, the emaciated frames and many not even bothering to look up.

What vile profit could be worth such torture? Whom would even survive this madness! Many were simply dead already!

Let Deitrich not be among them.

The people grew healthier, as much as they could, as they moved further. Some manner of muscle or fat still clung to them, their movements were a tad swifter, some even attempted to speak.

Encouraged by this, they reached the end.

These soon-to-be-freed people were in the best compared shape. Some of them struggled with their bonds. Some looked like they'd only been taken recently, their mouths gagged to prevent screaming for help.

One among them was finally familiar.

"Here," Ramza called out, drawing Delita over.

Deitrich was bloody and bruised, his head buried, his limbs shackled and his mouth gagged with a fetid cloth. Ramza pull it free, checked his friend's breath—alive!

"Deitrich, Deitrich can you hear me?" Ramza goaded him. But he remained unresponsive. While Delita worked on the manacles binding him, Ramza infused his body with chakra to mend what wounds he could. This drew curious eyes elsewhere.

But Ramza was more focused on making his friend's eyes open.

Slowly, but surely they did!

He blinked a few times with those sea-blue eyes of his, but he saw, widening them in surprise. "Ramza?"

"Aye, Deitrich," he breathed a sigh of relief. "You're safe now."

The chemist looked around, finding even more surprise at Delita's face. "Delita?" he chocked out, his voice still raspy from being choked.

"You'll be free in a heartbeat, Deitrich." He was halfway through the shackles now.

"The barge of the dead is hardly safe or free," he moaned. "How'd you end up in this glamorous hell Ramza? I must have shunted off in the voyage."

"Nay Deitrich, you're quite alive as is."

The man choked out a bitter laugh. "'Tis a terrible dream to tempt me with freedom then."

Delita sighed. "You're alive, Ramza's alive, and I'm alive." He popped the near-final manacle.

The words were a splash of cold water on Deitrich, his vacant expression washed away completely. "Y-you survived? For true? And Tietra?"

Her brother shook his head.

"I am sorry."

Delita freed him from the shackles. Ramza pulled him out and stood him up. Unlike Delita's recovery, Deitrich had not been laid long enough to be infirm. A tad wobbly, but he could stand.

"What's the plan?" asked Deitrich.

"Can you fight?" said Ramza.

"Do I have a choice?" Ramza pushed the dagger into his hands. "Surely I'll make all the difference here."

'Twas time to start the siege. They returned to Isilud, with introductions, and the beginnings of their plan. They barricaded the hall outside with nearby clutter, rent the door's outside lock and arranged a blockade on the inside.

Ramza layered protect, regen and shell on their foursome and took to the only window with the gun. Unsteady finger on the trigger, he pulled.

The gunshot echoed into the night and battle was on.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I'm editing past Chapters, two a day. A meager improvement.  
**

 **Thank you all for reading and have a wonderful day.**


	26. Chapter 25: Siege Ship

**Chapter 25: Siege Ship**

The guard stationed at the Endeavor's gangplank continued to offer every excuse under the moon about he and his were law-abiding sailors, charitable sorts and the second coming of Saint Ajora himself. How he, in his infinite mercy, would let the Church Knights go in spite of their arrogance of accusing him.

It would be humorous if the man wasn't a slaver. Though his odor may well have been a crime in and of itself. Mayhap such a slum-like exterior was some manner of cover for his true work. Cover the horrors of what went below with a fearsome guise all his own. Greasy and mangled mop of black hair, a breath may well have been rum and less teeth than fingers (and only seven of the latter). Clothes frayed and torn, yet steel saber belted to his side.

A gunshot broke the silence and everything the Endeavor guard knew. He split into a confused agitation as his mind raced to understand what was going on.

While those who knew exactly what it entailed drew their steel. Magick swelled within the blade before it even righted. The villain's hand sped to its hilt but before it ever left his side Beowulf unleashed the spellblade art and sent the brutish sailor into a forced sleep.

He narrowly avoided plunging into the waters.

Shouts went out from above as the slavers dull wits came to focus. Ser Barich felled one with his gun before Beowulf led charge up the gangplank. Ser Aliste and the Gryphons following with.

Hastily shot bolts greeted his shield as two slavers moved to bulwark the gangway. Yells went about to get the ship on way but the Gryphons would put a stop to it!

Ser Barich's second shot disabled one of the guardian foemen and Beowulf tackled his way through the other. The advantage was theirs. The slavers, clad in cloth armors for sea encounters would be simple slaying compared to knight's plate.

Beowulf finished the slaver with a stab to the stomach and kicked him away. Ser Aliste and the Gryphons set to his flanks to form their breech head. A stampede. Of Gryphons emerging from hiding—slavers rising to defend their ship.

The latter arrived first, dozens of men hoisting spears and javelins to break the Gryphon vanguard while others kept their rain of bolt and arrow at the reinforcements below.

A dozen thrusts came at him, most taken by shield, some deflected by blade and what remained scraping against his plates. He struck once back, with spellblade of blindness, throwing the slaver lines into confusion and nearly shattering them with in-fighting. Ser Aliste's own attempt sealed it, as his magicks forced spear upon ally for true and broke their discipline.

Boots struck ramp behind them—Beowulf gave the order, "Attack!"

At once did the Gryphons advance, swords into spears. Beowulf slew two men in one slash as the lines fell forward. Heavy armors bore the brunt of the enemies counter. While some knights did fall to the sheer number of spears they pressed against, more arrived and the defenders were pushed back.

Panicked shouting and planning erupted into the chorus of battle as the slavers moved back to defend the vessels other strong points. The helm, the cargo among them. Ser Isilud, Ser Ramza and Ser Delita's part would pay out soon.

"Second squad, take the helm!" The defenders were rallying at the ladders to protect their helmsmen. "Third squad to the forecastle!" A party of enemy archers at ship's front laid down their shots while guarded by men armed with bucklers and sabers. "Black mage squad clear the ladders below decks!" Ice magicks struck as intended, cutting the enemy reinforcements flow. White magicks meanwhile invigorated the assaulting Gryphons more, and all along the ship's deck the enemy were pressed back.

Second squad ignored the ladders and leapt over railings towards the helm, besieging the slavers suddenly from behind. Third squad had the more challenging push, stricken by ranged fire as they were. But the defenders were grouped perfectly for further bombardments of magick. "Black mage squad support third. First squad, follow me below! Ser Aliste you've deck command!"

"Aye!"

Beowulf charged through the enemy ranks, a half-dozen trusted Gryphons at his side. His sword was unimpeded by any armors the slavers wore, their fetid smell more damaging than their spears. They cut through the opposition, the ladder below before them. They braved the dark unknowns.

* * *

The four young men braced themselves for the onslaught after the shot was loosed. The sounds of battle rattled the deck, as stomps and shouts and slaves rose through the night.

But no one came.

The tension of waiting may well have surpassed the dangers of assault. He'd yet faced a foe coming to him, save for first deployment a lifetime ago in Gariland. At that time they were nigh outside akademy's doors, there was no time to consider what occurred with iron and blood and first battle.

No, mayhap it was there all along at every day he spent in the akademy.

But he needed to be strong, for the others. Lead the charge as Beoulve should.

No time to think as they slew their first men.

Isilud took it the worst. Sweat already falling down his cheek. His eyes focuses on the door. Breaths shallow.

Beside him Delita was a pillar of confidence. Far cry from the rampaging berserk of Ziekden Fortress.

Deitrich, battered as he was, leaned against one of the columns nearby. Waiting for when his potions would be of most use.

Aye, there was only two answers now. Life, or death. A disturbing simplicity that washed away all of life's complexities.

"Who de 'ell put all dis crap 'ere!?"

Their outside barricade was working.

The scratching of the outside woods and more cursing and shouted preceded the door being pushed.

"Aww dammit, what a lousy time for a slave rebellion!" Another voice.

Pounding struck the door while the three of them braced the junk they'd barricaded it with. They would not let it open that easily!

"Just chop yer way through!" A third voice.

Well enough did they begin and break a view through. "Oy, who de 'ell are you!?"

"Gryphons you idiot!"

"Who cares get in there and kill'em!"

Gods above it was almost comical.

It was also a window to take advantage of.

Ramza focused his spirit into his fists, burning with power and eager to rise, he unleashed the invisible punch. The front man's nose crunch back under invisible power and he fell back into the others.

"De hell was dat!?"

"Doug go grab some more men we need this done as soon as able!"

Someone held some sense. The prime target whence he came.

One of them ran off, the rest remained to hack at the door out-of-sight. Ramza fell back, leaving Delita and Isilud to cover. When wild swings burst through the wood, they met mythril shield and bounced back. Ruin those edges any way they could.

Wood gave way to metal (the floor a mess filled with splinters) as the slavers managed to push their way through for good. Delita and Isilud were swift upon their first man (armored in cloth armor as they), the two striking in unison and opposite to always land a hit. The man's buckler could not afford the best protection and his sword swings were large and unwieldy. Though Delita nearly took a strike alongside his head, he planted sword under man's arm in kind.

He flattered to the pain, long enough for Isilud to draw kunai to neck and life from throat. The slaver fell, adding his mass to the barricade.

His compatriots did not care, one pushing past it all to come at Ramza while two more moved to challenge his friends.

His foemen wielded an ax, chipped and worn by work it nonetheless retained enough edge that it would kill with cuts before bashes. Ramza ducked back to avoid each swing, letting the man exhaust himself looking for the kill.

When sweat formed on his eyes Ramza moved. Shield to block strike while using his free hand to punch the man's throat. The sudden shift in combat had the slaver backing away as Ramza pursued, but the advantage drew clear as Ramza pursued. A wild swing from the man came to earn some distance, but Ramza used the moment against him, sending the ax to the floor, locking it in just long enough for Ramza to beat the man senseless and knock him flat to the deck.

A spear nearly took his eye!

Barely did he buck his head back from it and followed with a dive to prevent a further thrust.

More had flooded in—two to one the odds now as his friends afield were pushed back as well, blood seeping through minor cuts that slowly healed—thank Gods for protect and regen).

The spearman was a far swifter foe and Ramza's retreats could not handle it. It scrapped through his gear even amongst the dodges and there was no simple way to close distance. The slaver had learned, was not as ambitious. He kept good tempo with his blows.

A plan burned within Ramza's fist as he fell further and further back. He dove to the side—no other foemen was close. Ramza braced with his shield, back against one of the slave bed frames.

The spearman's thrust hit the shield as Ramza planned. The force buckling through his arm and back. There would be a bruise for certain. The repulse from metal on metal force the spearman back as his spear wobbled.

Ramza unleashed another aurablast, striking shoulder. Unstable spear and arm loose panic and the spear fell from right hand.

To his credit he managed a thrust with left alone when Ramza charged back in. Well-aimed too, another yet-near miss against his head.

Fist beat spear at such distance and Ramza pummeled him mercilessly 'til his face turned red of blood rather than rage.

He fell.

Luck as with him. But not his friends.

Three-on-one now raged for Delita and Isilud as yet more slavers flooded within. Their light wounds had blossomed into crimson clothes as they were cut apart by slips and strikes around guard or abuses of spear range.

Close enough were they to him and each other. Far away any foemen.

Perfect.

Ramza channeled towards a curaga. The greatest spell of healing at his disposal. A product of a week's worth of dedicated practice. The last of his magical reserve.

But enough to turn the flagging Templars at the fore into revitalized young men fighting for the first time today. Delita swung back with unexpected force and laid an assailant dead. Isilud caught another in the eye, dug his kunai out, kicked the man into the one behind him, then leapt over both before loading his ninja blade into the back of the man's skull.

Deitrich had vanished at some point. His body did not grace the floors. May wherever he hid be safe!

Ramza ran to rejoin the fray as his friends success was quickly cut short. Delita's shield shattered from a mighty strike and a spear took his left shoulder. His friend cried out in pain even as he brought his sword about and clubbed the other man's head. He did not let go, only twisted the weapon and elicited another scream of agony.

So Ramza slapped him across the face with his shield and sent the man into a twisted sprawl unto the floor.

Isilud with one foemen fared a slight better as he could still ward away a sword's strike with his shield. Ramza concentrated on restoring Delita.

Everything froze.

Ice shattered amongst his skin and Delita fell back writhing yet unconscious from the ice magick that struck them both. Shell had prevented the worst of it and yet it still stung.

Another spear came at his head—deflected by shield yet again—and he abandoned Delita to deal with the new foe.

Eight more—seven, after Isilud's latest enemy dropped, remained now. Four advanced on Isilud, spear against himself whilst a black mage in back prepared another spell.

"Isilud the mage!" Ramza directed his ally. The spearmen pulled back. Ramza's fist burned.

The Nightblade flashed a look of uncertain concern.

Spearman rushed back to the mage! "Do it!" 'Twas more danger to leave alive than ruin their position!

Without further consideration, Isilud pulled back from melee's embrace. His legs bent low, feet rose to their tips. He soared over the heads of the advancing men. Some were surprised, some tried to struck him. One succeeded.

But he did not stop. With absolute precision he navigated the thin strip between man and ceiling. Over them all. Landed right on the mage who could not help but cry in surprise.

Kunai to throat. One more dead.

The retreating spearman struck, catching Isilud badly to the side and drawing blood and pain.

Ramza struck too late. His aurablast only made it worst as the spearman plied further within.

Isilud took advantage and buried his kunai into the man's throat before falling another amongst the body pile.

The four advancing on Isilud turned attention back to him. The last obstacle before they could claim what wasn't theirs. Disgust played their faces. The slaves beat what sound they could. The last foemen in back to cover the door fell forward, dagger in his ear.

Deitrich stepped towards Isilud unseen to all but Ramza. With phoenix down in hand he stabilized the fallen Nightblade and with potion he evened the effects of bleeding.

Course became clear.

Ramza dashed to side, drawing attention and the slavers march towards him away from Delita. But as most time as able and strike against enemies backs.

They were having no more of such trickery and charged full ahead!

* * *

Resistance inside the ship was fiercer as the Gryphons Beowulf led fought straight through the heart of the enemy's reinforcements. Too many became bloodstains on their swords as they pressed forward. Too much of the ship's crew were aboard. Too many even for a vessel of this size.

When he encountered a foe that nearly cleaved his blade in twain the answer dawned on him. By some hook they'd hired mercenaries at the same night of the Gryphons attack. Trap or foulest luck ruminating on such thoughts would benefit naught. He urged caution to his men as they fought forward.

'Twould mean that the infiltration team was facing greater risk than first envisioning.

The slavers ferocity hardened as they descended, while their numbers lessened each man further down was swordarm worth twice of a level above. If these strong arms had been on watch the breech would be naught a success. Some small measure of luck remained in their favor.

Level of the slaveholds presumption an ambush came from one of the sides. Hewrey lost to the sudden ax to his head. And though the remaining Gryphons swiftly tore the ambusher to pieces, there was naught to be done for their fallen.

Four men at his side they advanced down a hall thundering with noise and cluttered with junk. A hewn apart door laid at the end, a small glimpse of golden hair in room fore.

"Move!" he commanded and the Gryphons abandoned all caution for due haste.

Through a splattering of roughshod wood they ran and breached the room. Bodies of slavers, allies and foemen still on feet their greeting with a slap of vile smell for good measure.

Slavers advanced against Ser Ramza in the distance. Four men, backs all turned.

Five Gryphon swords did take those backs and lives.

"Are you alright?" asked Beowulf.

Ser Delita was attended to by the look of one of the slaves. The missing man Deitrich to be presumed.

"Shall he live?" Ser Ramza asked the chemist with phoenix down in hand.

"Aye, no surprise considering," the chemist answered with a smile.

"Attend to them at once," ordered Beowulf. "Secure the room, I shall bring news topside." His Gryphons snapped to their lesser used skillsets of white magicks, or trading potions for the chemist to make use of. "You've done good work. We'll have the ship erelong."

Ser Ramza fell off his feet. "They were more skilled than expected." Though he remained free from goodly injury, enough scraps were present to blend blood and sweat.

"Mercenaries, if you'd believe it. Foul luck to strike on night they board." The spies spoke nothing of such men. "But save any such thoughts for after."

"Aye."

Nod further to his Gryphons, Beowulf took turn and left. Ser Aliste would have the deck certain enough.

* * *

With Ser Beowulf stoppering the enemy's reinforcements from rising above, the Gryphons on deck had the slavers in hand well enough. The helm was quickly overrun by more skilled combatants and the slavers mounted a desperate defense at the poop deck aft.

The forecastle was the harder point to crack. As the black mages assailed the ladders with ice, the archers loosed their arrows. Ser Barich's gun however, surpassed their shots. For every black mage they struck through a shield wall, the Templar's weapon slew two. With Aliste's spellblade adding the occasional befuddlement into the mix the Gryphons stormed the forecastle and took it and prisoners.

He moved to the aft, the slaver captain in real armor mounting a ferocious defense in spite of his situation. Aided by a few archers—one in particular sohooting from the crow's nest, he was blunting the Gryphon's momentum rather well.

But not for long. With a swift release of magick, Aliste sent the crow archer to sleep—and to his death as he fell to the deck with a meaty crash.

The Gryphon lieutenant made way to the captain, who grinned between his crooked teeth. Emboldened by his success so far, he swung his saber first.

A costly mistake.

Aliste met the sword mid-swing with a thrust. Tip against tip. He twisted his steel below and beat his foe's saber aside. Throwing the captain off-balance on the ladder, with one more thrust Aliste put an end to it in his throat. An amateur way for a ship's captain to lose.

The captain's body hitting deck was the switch to surrender. The slavers tossed their weapons overboard and took to their knees, hands on head. A few holdouts struggled, they knew what fates awaited slavers. But five Gryphons to one thug was a simple set.

The deck was theirs. Now for the below decks.

"Second squad below, even decks secure. Third squad below, odd decks secure." His orders issued the Gryphons marched down below. "Mage squads, watch the prisoners and the wounded."

Aliste spared glance for the gangway, the Templar Barich finally arriving on-ship. "Ser Barich, with me. We go to reinforce Ser Beowulf and the other Templars."

"A gun is decidedly useless in those quarters."

"Then strike with your fists, come." Aliste bid him follow and went without confirmation.

Nevertheless did the Templars heavy footsteps follow below.

Battle still ran as Gryphons found holdouts. Still naught before a true knight's steel.

"We should secure their powder room so they do not take the whole ship with us," said the Templar.

"If you thought it such danger you'd mention it earlier." He was a man more concerned with self than others. He would not put one step on this ship if he thought it like to explode. Nay, he simply put words to feign relevant. A braggart.

Halfway to descent did they encounter Ser Beowulf. "Swift as ever Ser Aliste."

"The other decks have yet to be secure."

"The slave pens are. We've lost Hewrey, but all others yet live."

"I see." Good man. "Injuries?"

"Many. No man escaped without wound and the slaves cling to life. We shall require water and food at once."

"I'll give the order." He started up immediately.

"Nay, I'll take stock of the deck, I'd give you command of the slave guard instead."

"Yes sir."

The ships was theirs but there was still much work to be done.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Whew. Despite the word count that went by fast when I actually belted down and wrote it. Also got around to making a proper fic icon. Nothing fancy, but it'll work.  
**

 **Compliments? Criticisms? Thanks for reading and have a great day.**


	27. Chapter 26: One Eye Open

**Chapter 26: One Eye Open**

While the dull sounds of dying battle diminished around them, Ramza sat next to Delita and Isilud near the hold's door whilst Deitrich and the Gryphons attended to them. Though their supplies were minor, they were nonetheless extremely grateful for it.

The last vestiges of the regen spell wore off shortly after exhausting the potion supply on his two heavily injured friends. They were pale from the loss (not compared to the people imprisoned, of course) but exuberant for the victory.

Deitrich sat down beside them once finished. "There remain the chance this is but some complex trial before entering Paradise?"

"Not that I am aware of, no," Ramza shook his head.

"Like it or not, we're all alive Deitrich," added Delita.

The chemist let out a long sigh as he slumped against the wall. "Gods I almost wish it were."

"What do you mean?" asked Isilud.

Deitrich stared at the unfamiliar Templar. "I suppose introductions are in order firstly. Deitrich Diver, Baert Trading Company Outreach Group."

"Isilud Tengille, Knights Templar."

"Aliste Rosenheim, lieutenant of Lionel's Gryphon Knights ."

Barich, as well as the other Gryphons, saw fit not to give their names. Though the later kept themselves busy removing the bodies of the dead crew.

"Well, Ser Isilud, as is rather evident, I was comrade once to these two."

"You still are Deitrich," said Ramza.

A laugh more bitter than the darkest chocolates flew from his cracked lips. "Oh? Clear enough I am only here because of you. So you see fit to ride to my rescue. Well, we are even then. But we are not friends."

His words struck blows more brutal than any the slavers had landed. "I am sorry."

"Here's a 'thank you', now never speak to me again."

Dammit, he could not let it end like this! "I am sorry, Deitrich. But I did what I thought was best. As when I went to save Tietra." Delita remained strangely passive at his sister's name.

"I'm sure your brothers thought much the same."

The same anger that lashed out against Delita burned within once again, but day's soreness quenched its flames. Still, it seethed. "Would I could say I was so different. Yes, I wronged you, wronged you all. But there is more good to be done under Templar flag than taking to the wind and seeing where our feet led us."

"Much did we think the same, emboldened by Sand Rat's Sietch. Where then, did that lead us?"

"Here." Ramza pointed to the hundreds of men and women just saved. "Here, Deitrich."

Barich balked at the triumph. "The Gryphons would have the ship with or without you. Others in your stead would have accomplished just as much."

Aliste corrected him, "We would not have known of this ship's existence had the young ser not been amongst its prisoners."

"Gryphon intelligence is lacking, it would seem."

Deitrich's brow furrowed in confusion. "You mobilized Templars and Gryphons for me? Why? I am no man of such importance."

"Importance is relative," answered Aliste. "I would think your friends come running with our aid or no, but for our part your disappearance was the first indication such a vessel docked in Wajilis. Baert Trading Company men were raising a fuss regarding your sudden violent vanishment."

"They are my employers, yes, but I am just a humble chemist in their employ." His lips did take a languished smile however. "I was taken unawares in the city slums and awoke to beatings, starvings and eventually Ramza and Delita."

"Then you would know naught of Baert's own ventures in slavery."

That thin smile shattered into a deep frown. "So that is it? I am but pawn to take before the king that is my employer? No, Ser Aliste, I know naught of Baert's 'shadowworks' save unpleasant rumor. They pay me fair and treat me well, I've no need of reasons to work save those."

"All the stranger then." The man's serious face underwent a look of worry.

"What of it?" asked Isilud.

"Saved for whence Ser Beowulf returns." The impassive mask returned. "For now save your stamina. It may yet be needed again."

That was too curious not to ask about. But Ramza did well to hold his tongue back. Repeat answer all there was to come should he do so.

"What of the others, Deitrich," asked Delita.

Their old friend looked Delita square in the eye. "For you? Aye, you deserve that much, at least." Bitter flash at those words. "Pelinne stayed with me as we entered Lionel. I much believe the whole fuss of my disappearance was caused by her."

"You live together then?"

"Ah!" A red flush took his cheeks. "We'd but a few thousand gil between us and uncertain future ahead, so yes, we took what we could. Together."

"I'd thought you take her hand by now."

"No—I mean, yes—I mean, oh what do I even mean." He buried his face in his hands.

Delita exchanged a glance with him. Ramza took over an asked, "Well, what about Fulke?"

"I don't know," he answered, voice still muffled by his hands. "He led us out of Gariland, threw us all his gil and provisions and went north."

Towards Lesalia? 'Twas curious. "Did he offer word why?"

Deitrich shook his head. "Nay, only pray we remain safe."

"What of Stone then?" said Delita.

"We parted ways at Zeirchele Falls. He headed east, towards Limberry, but," he shook his head again, "we all knew he was returning there after graduation in the first place."

A Limberry native, Stone was most adamant (save Argath) about rescuing the Marquis. As one of his saviors, he would likely get a hero's welcome in his home province.

At least one of their band would face reward.

"Gylda?"

An explosive sigh preceded his answer. "She was with us to the Castled City of Zaland, then she just... vanished."

"Vanished?" Peculiar enough to repeat.

"I know not whether she was kidnapped or left on her own, but one morning her room was empty as if she never occupied it at all."

"Even your abduction bore some evidence," Ser Aliste intruded on their conversation. "Like the latter."

"That wasn't who Gylda was, even after all that happened." He sighed again. "Margarete went back into Gariland for her father but... she never made our rendezvous."

They'd followed him and he led them all to disaster. He was a poor excuse for a friend at this point. He was too consumed with Delita's well-being to inquire about them during his return.

"I'll find them Deitrich," vowed Ramza.

This earned a sardonic laugh from Barich. "Save yourselves the pointless of hope. You shall not accomplish a thing."

"I will." Ramza stood with his words.

"Without our aid you would have been another corpse on the floor."

"And without ours, a great deal many more would be," said Isilud, standing with Ramza.

"You think you've done aught but delay the inevitable?" Barich swept his arms over the imprisoned people. "What fancy crosses your mind as their destination? In noble's abode? Church shelter or Gryphon care? Nay, once they are due processed they will simply be back in the street starving. Better off as slaves, least food would fill their bellies then."

"That cannot be true!" shouted Isilud.

"It is," said Delita, who stood up as well now. "Or else Ser Aliste would have spoke sooner."

The Gryphon lieutenant's face remained set even against their stares.

"I refuse to condemn these people back to the same hardships when we can make a difference," said Ramza. "I know not how, but there would be a way that benefits all."

"What mewling rabble," said Barich. "Honeyed words don't fill bellies."

"Nor vinegar."

The two affixed glares at one another.

"Enough," Ser Aliste cut in. "This matter is for Cardinal Delacroix to decide."

"I will not stay silent on this matter."

"Then address it where it would do good, not here within earshot of those you claim to help."

'Twas rude to discuss these people's fate as if they held no sway in it either. "Very well."

The three of them took back to their seating. Shortly before Ser Beowulf returned himself, a host of white mages followed at his heels (who all buckled a few steps into the room before continuing). "Attend to all at once." The Knight Captain himself produced a set of keys and went about finally unlocking the shackles that bound the prisoners so long.

Those that could form words did so, cheers so loud they hurt ears.

Those that could stand did so, legs still uncertain but steadfast in their own way.

Many were led outside, as the room was too cramped to hold so many people standing.

Knights and Templar congregated into a corner as they kept watch on the proceedings.

"'Tis amiss," said Ser Beowulf.

"Whatever do you mean by that?" asked Ser Aliste.

"Ser Ramza, what is your gauge of your foemen's skill-at-arms?"

"They would seem mostly untrained, with a few men of skill among them. More a mob than a true knight," he answered.

"Aye," said Isilud. "They lacked training and discipline; they simply swarmed us."

Beowlf's brow creased with worry. "Ser Deitrich, how were you taken?"

"I was struck from behind whilst in the housing of a small shack in the slums."

"And Ser Aliste, you slew the ship's captain, did you not?"

"All-too-easy."

The Grpyhon captain cupped his chin as his thoughts made sense of the information availed to him. "I would wager we have not caught your kidnappers in-specific Ser Diver."

"What do you mean?"

"You are a man of some skill in combat, if I am not mistaken?" Deitrich gave a nod. "Yet you were taken from behind? It would require some skill at subterfuge to do so. Enough so that none of the men I encountered could have worked."

"It's a big ship."

"One that reeks, from hull to deck and each crew in her. Nay, these men have not left their vessel. Their stink would give them away."

Deitrich averted his eyes. His nose took a visible sniff of the wretched air. "Aye, now that you call to mind, I would have realized such a foul stench."

"Slums have a smell all their own," said Ser Aliste.

"They are poor, not uncivilized. Though not the roses of the noble sections or the salt of the ports they were not so vile as this place."

"So the possibility becomes whoever took you did not crew the ship."

Ser Beowulf gave a confirming nod for his subordinate. "The men we encountered were too crude to away with such a great number of people without evidence. These are but hired middlemen—and a mighty number of them."

"Whom then, did this?"

The question fell upon them all. The frustration fell on their faces as realization of just whom it was came to them.

Only one was crass enough to answer.

"Baert Trading Company," said Barich.

"Dammit, I've had enough of your accusations!" Deitrich looked ready to tear Barich's throat out.

"You're quite defensive over a company you've been employed at for but a month at best."

"If I go about screaming the Church were Lucavi you'd think me much the same as I do you."

More of Barich's twisted laughter answered him. "Keep your lips tight boy. The Inquisition is less accommodating than I." Deitrich bared his teeth but did so.

"Aye, and we should all keep one eye open as we sleep," said Ser Aliste. "We have not heard the last of this, of that, I am certain."

* * *

Little Gryphons and little Templars and precious cargo laid to sleep. Guards too few—elsewhere with more cargo. Cut the head off first, let the body writhe and die before taking back what was their's. So much money lost, must recover.

They moved.

Silent as a whisper.

Shadow in the night.

No sound, no sight. No eye of roof but their's.

The windows were easy to pop. Easy to infiltrate.

Blanket on bed moved up and down to breath's rhythm.

Swords brandished in the night, darker than, not an ounce of light.

On bedpost sprang he held aloft twin killers—viper's jaws ready to bite.

He struck!

Slow?

He looked down.

The prey's sword stuck in his own chest.

How?

"One eye open indeed."

* * *

Without further thought or sound the ninja fell back dead.

Aliste pulled his red-stained blade back and leapt out of bed. "To arms!" he shouted loud as he could. He expected retribution just not so swiftly. But when better time than when the bulk of Gryphons guarded free-men?

Rushed crashes of battle erupted from other rooms. Thunder sounded out as Ser Barich fired his pistol and the yells of every other.

Aliste headed out with only his sword—too slow to don armor. Door left, he kicked it inside. Ser Beowulf had his foe ninja on the backfoot already depriving him of the use of an arm.

Confident in his friend's skills, Aliste continued on. Second door shot open first, as Ser Barich exited, shaken but alive and with a gash of crimson across his face. "Lousy ninjas."

"To the other Templars, hurry," he said.

Aliste took the next door whilst Barich barged down the one across from him.

The young Templars, far more drained from night's combat, fared the worse. Ser Isilud in his sight bore a great deal many open wounds whilst his opponent twirled and danced around his counters.

Aliste moved in to support, gaining attention with a thrust that was still dodged.

"Too eager, as always. A shame," said the ninja. "We away!" he shouted and made for window.

Aliste drew magick to blade and sent a spellblade of sleep—no effect. The ninja vanished into the night.

Isilud collapsed and Aliste stepped quick to hold sheets to the wounds. "White mages!"

Already behind him was the sound of feet as every other ally flooded into the room. Ser Delita near as bad as Ser Isilud.

"This was not Baert Trading Company," said Ser Beowulf, his eyes grim at the lightning-quick strike. "This was Khamja."

* * *

 **Author's Note: This feels too harsh on Ramza, honestly, having OCs berate him. But 'tis not canon Ramza here...**

 **Thank you for reading and may you have an excellent day.**


	28. Chapter 27: Cardinal Direction

**Chapter 27: Cardinal Direction**

"The Khamja?" Ramza gaped at the sudden declaration. "The assassins that serve Grand Duke Barrington of Fovoham?" Lord Father had been rife with disapproval against their use. Children, homes burnt by war, taken in and raised as assassins in the grand duke's personal army. Though the man and his otherland sellswords had safeguarded Fovoham in the Fifty Years' War he had done it in too vile a method to condone.

"The very same," said Ser Beowulf. Expressions dour all around.

Ramza turned his efforts towards tending to his wounded friends with his magicks.

Ser Aliste said, "That is quite an accusation, Ser Beowulf."

"A leap more like it," said Barich.

"Nay, I believe it quite sound. The amount of funds to procure travel and accommodations for slaves is immense. Enough so that only the wealthiest of patrons could pay for it."

"Baert Trading Company can afford it as well," said Ser Aliste.

"Too true. But they've not men of such caliber as what just made attempt on our lives."

"That we know of."

"But to attack Gryphons and Templars when suspicion was shed on the company? They would be stricken by investigation immediately."

Deitrich guffawed at the statement. "With naught but suspicions prior, you think Baert too capable to shoot himself in the foot like that."

"Something to that effect, yes," Beowulf nodded. "Inform us, Ser Deitrich, when you were abducted, what did you have on your person?"

"The usual relief package for the slum-dwellers, nothing more."

"Your clothes?"

"Hm? Oh! No, I wasn't wearing a company uniform, if that's what you're asking."

"Then your kidnappers would be like unaware of your affiliation. While they moved otherwise beyond our patrol's gaze with we none the wiser to their crimes. Whoever took you was of uncanny skill, ingrained enough to learn our patrols and how best to avoid them, but not careful enough to avoid Baert Company's ire."

"I would claim it light feasible, nothing more," said Ser Aliste.

"Questions to ask of our prisoners then, when we reach Lionel Castle. I deem Warjilis too dangerous to remain, we depart at first light."

"We can't!" refused Deitrich. "I—I need to get m-my girl..." Still he went red at it.

"Arrangements will be made," Ser Beowulf relieved him. "Now where are those white mages?"

They arrived soon after, with some choice words from Ser Beowulf chiding their lateness. Wounds were tended, bodies cleared, messages sent and guard tripled.

He slept with one eye open, just in case.

* * *

No other attack came. A relief to Ramza's much-tired eyes.

Pelinne had arrived before they'd even woke, already inseparable from Deitrich's arm. Though she had a few choice words aimed at Ramza again, her overflowing thanks for saving Deitrich won out. Delita's sudden survival helping a tad with that was well.

Mornings routines came and went under heavy guard and no words of any further complications regarding the prisoners or former slaves.

The Church Knight forces marshaled soon after. A host of chocobo knights and five prisoner wagons loaded to full. With a call from Ser Beowulf at column's head they departed northwards, to Lionel Castle. The capital of Lionel province where Cardinal Alphonse Delacroix, hero of the Fifty Years' War, right-hand man of the Church of Glabados, and liege lord of Lionel resided.

Light talk frittered among the convoy. Rumors for all. Reliving life for old comrades. While Deitrich never truly forgave him, his animosity cooled somewhat. More concerned with keeping Pelinne happy than not.

Camp was made.

Camp broke without any difficulties and journey continued.

Lionel's gates were reached during setting sun. The Gryphon's on duty opening the large wooden gate before the convoy even reached the battle-damaged walls. Yet another castle that faced siege in the Fifty Years' War.

Inside, the prisoners were broken off towards the castle prison whilst Gryphons returned to barracks and Templar, Deitrich and Pelinne showed to quarters and a waiting room.

Despite settling in for a long rest and relief of soft cushions and beds, they were called in for meeting with Cardinal Delacroix almost instantly.

Deitrich and Pelinne both hemmed and hawed with their clothes at the news. Meetings with Dycedarg or Duke Larg had never involved them (or any of the other cadets). So it would be their first audience to a liege lord. (Marquis Elmdore's condition rendering him too infirm to speak at the time.)

Much of the scuffle was done over Deitrich's chemist cap. The blue hat bent forwards was the man's pride and joy. He'd seen it returned from the ship as a clause of his ongoing assistance. He'd even shaved his golden locks down to a fine fuzz to better fit it (and prevent helmet hair).

Pelinne had traded out her geomancer's pancho for a more befitting light green dress. Though loose, if trouble came she could still give a good fight. Her usual loose tails tied in front had been weaved into a singular dark blonde braid in back.

Ramza did not have the heart to tell them that, in his experience, the high-most clergy were less than particular about appearances.

Delita had changed into a set of armor bearing no insignia. Ramza and Isilud back to their Templar sets.

A squire arrived and led them to audience with the Cardinal.

It was a modest room, as like all other church furnishing. The Cardinal himself sat at the other end of a round table. Standing behind were Ser Beowful on the right and Ser Aliste on the left.

"You've my thanks young Templars, this victory could not have been accomplished without your heroics."

Delita stomped forward before the glow of victory could overwhelm them. "What do you intend to do with the freed slaves?"

"You forget yourself Ser Delita," said Ser Beowulf and added a scowl. Many others were agape at the outburst as well.

But not Ramza. He stood with Delita's words as well.

The Cardinal held hand to hold back his Gryphon Captain. "He is right to be concerned, Beowulf. Long has Ivalice been rotted by those who should be her doctors. The _Endeavor_ and its cargoes shall be sold to interested parties and the resulting gil shall go to housing and food for the victims of this."

"I've heard words as pretty as those before."

"You are welcome to oversee their comforts, if that is your wish."

"What then when I depart? I've no guarantee then, either."

"Only the gods have such vision to ensure all beneath them are cared for," said the Cardinal. "So no, young man, you have naught but my word and the words of those you fought alongside that they shall be cared for."

Delita shook his head. "'Tis not enough."

"You are most welcome to extend your visit, so long as you desire."

"We shall see." He stepped back; though the glower of Ser Beowulf's face remained.

Following Delita's resolve, Cardinal Delacroix followed with his recounting of the events told to him. A few corrections were given from those who witnessed for true, but for the most part his account was accurate.

The Cardinal stroked the fine white mustache atop his lip after finishing. "I know naught what Grand Duke Barrington may seek with slaves made of Lionel men. He has kept himself afield of affairs of the court and crowns. But if it is his doing, we shall do all in our power to see he is brought to justice."

"What of the assassins of past night, Ser Beowulf?" asked Isilud.

The Gryphon captain shook his head. "We've nothing to report. Not even a trickle of blood left that inn in spite of the wounds afflicted. Were I not amongst those struck I would scarce believe such an attack ever took place."

"The prisoners taken from the _Endeavor_ have naught to offer but pleas for their lives," added Ser Aliste.

It could be claimed no true victory until the source of this scourge was expunged. "With tensions between the Lions rising," said Ramza, "will any investigation into Fovoham be tolerated?"

"Claim easy he would, that Fovoham has naught to hide and accusing a man of his caliber so openly will have repercussions."

"Would he so brazenly threaten the Church?"

"Threaten?" said Cardinal Delacroix. "Nay, young Templar, he would but present himself as a generous friend asking a favor."

"The Church's support for himself, or Duke Larg, as regent."

"Mayhap. Or perhaps something entirely different. 'Tis but long-winded speculation with little evidence to support. We would do best to learn what we can before placing blame where it is due."

Like not to include himself then. Subterfuge was only in his forte when breaking into ships unaware and the like, not rummaging for every dirty secret in a back alley.

The Cardinal suddenly registered a great look of shock upon his face. "What?"

"Your Eminence?" Ser Beowulf asked as motes of concern took everyone in the room.

"No—I..." He shook his head. But much weariness now rested on his face. "It seems I am suddenly quite fatigued. The rigors of age—curse it all. Would that I more able to lend my aid."

Before one more word took anyone's lips the doors behind were thrown opening demanding all turn to see. In he strode, clad in tattered purple tabard: "Lord Folmarv!"

* * *

 **Author's Note: Thanks for reading and have a glorious day.**


	29. Chapter 28: Holy Stone March

**Chapter 28: Holy Stone March**

The Gods' hands were at work here for certain.

Lord Folmarv pried Leo from his daughter's grasp and peered into its unfathomable depths.

Cletienne's leads had been much off the mark.

Let this lion see the end of two more. He pushed himself up in spite of pain. "We return this instant."

"You are too injured, lord father, and this fog too... thick?" She trailed off.

He looked where her eyes went. The near-solid mists began to dissipate. The grounds revealed themselves, patterned with bodies like streets of stone. A single path formed clear of obstructions as even the far distant walls revealed themselves.

His hand clutched the stone ever tighter. Was it the cause of the mists? Or cause of their departure?

Matters for later. "To our chocobos." And the potions they carried.

* * *

The mystery of the Sable Swords sorted gave them all the cheer Sal Ghidos could muster. Which, simply, meant there were no attempts on their possessions or chocobos that night.

Come morning the sounds of the Blackrams arriving drew both Templars down to the ground floor, and shortly then did Baron Grimms enter.

Difficult as it was to, as the man's impressive size gave him difficulty passing through doors. Every physical impression the noble gave off was of a bear that managed to clothe itself. His face was more taken by black beard than bare flesh and what was visible was stretched by more work than leisure.

Palamedes followed in, wearing the Blackram colors as did the Baron. The Templar Officer had shaved his golden hair down to a more helmet-set size had earned himself a few small scars to his cheeks. He was lanky compared to the Baron, but few men weren't, in comparison.

The Baron gave a hearty congratulations for ridding the roads of rumors regarding the Sable swords before veering into the Order of the Ebon Eye. While the Blackrams had contained it for now, his own Order was depleting its manpower quite rapidly. Already did he require discreet reinforcements from the Southern Sky and what aid Palamedes gave.

Their plan was growing closer to fruition. Folmarv agreed to speak with the High Confessor regarding some more support from outside sources.

The Baron may well have embraced him for his exuberance he displayed.

The usual strings of tiresome platitudes were exchanged and finally it came time to part ways.

As Folmarv and Meliadoul made their preparations Palamedes bid him over in a discreet manner.

Away from prying eyes and open ears, Folmarv asked in hushed whisper, "What is it?"

The Holy Knight took gaze around as well before he answered. "There's but one more thing." The other Templar retrieved a pouch from his doublet and hastened it into his commander's hands. "Do not open 'til you are far afield."

It was hard, some sort of stone?

No, it could not possibily...?

Could it?

"There's always a second Eye."

Palamedes left him with another message that could only be clear once he was clear of the city.

Folmarv pushed his daughter to depart ever the faster and the two left city within minutes.

Far from all possible eyes, he pulled open the treasure entrusted to him.

Gleaming inside with a deep azure hue was a stone-shaped teardrop with ragged edges. The symbol of Pisces blared on it.

By the Gods, two holy stones in as many days!?

Meliadoul let a gasp of awe her own at the sight.

Folmarv quickly stored it back inside his surcoat with Leo.

This was the will of the Gods, of that there was no doubt. If Palamedes' words held true, the Ebon Eye held yet another. Half the stones would be enough to work with.

Let the Lions claws strike, he held the true Lion within.

* * *

The Free City of Bervenia was a welcome change from the slum-state of Sal Ghidos. Though much of his structures were old, ancient even, they were cared for and maintained to the best of the Church servants and attendants that claimed home with the birthplace of Saint Ajora. Every stone, every piece of wood, was holy.

Templars manning the city's garrison gave nods and salutes of respect as the two rode into the city.

Meliadoul had been a fine trainee, but it was here she would achieve status as a true Divine Knight.

A part of him had grown attached to their training session, but she needed to learn from another. She had broken into her own styling somewhat, but her forms still mimicked his too a dangerous degree. If she kept such arrogance in her swings she would be bested.

They met with Linnett in the central office for the Templars in the city. Like all of the Church stations headquartered in the city, it ringed the very well that Saint Ajora once claimed as tainted.

He greeted them warmly, with him clad only in his pink tabard. Bervenia may well have been the safest city in Ivalice. The Royal Family, the province lords, the Knight Orders held no sway here, despite the city sitting on the border of Lesalia-Zeltennia.

Folmarv was quick to remind him that any such lax behavior as an instructor would be noticed.

Linnett shaped up instantly.

The orders were given and acknowledged and Folmarv prepared to depart once again.

There was one more matter to attend to, first. He retireved another large box contained within the luggage. It had yet to open during the travesl, but its due date would be like missed.

He handed the box to Meliadoul, who opened it upon the desk in her new quarters.

Her eyes lit up at the sight within.

She pulled free a shining white sword with blue hilt. "A Knight Sword?" she gasped at the magnificent blade she now held.

"Save the Queen," said Folmarv. "In part it is git for a missed many birthdays, your ascension as Divine Knight and first true Templar posting."

"I cannot possibly accept it.. or any of them..." Her hands reached in an pulled out a broad-bladed pair. "Two Knight Swords? I've yet to see one in your hands at all, lord father."

"The first is from myself, the second from your brother—coin collected from other Templars to pay for it."

She slowly nodded before lowering both blades and retrieving the final gift. "The perfume is from mother, I take it?"

"Indeed. She still has her sight set you'll take to being a 'proper lady'."

"I am a knight."

"Yes, you are. It is why I convinced her for a practical fragrance. A Chantage, has a soothing scent imbued with a subtle weave of magicks. It will mend your wounds somewhat, while keeping your mind more focused."

She looked back at the small vial in wide-eyed surprise. "Goodness, I'd no idea there were such perfumes."

Best not to mention it cost half as much as the Defender second sword. "Use them wisely."

"Yes, lord father, and thank you. And thank mother and Isilud as well."

"I will."

Folmarv departed after a swift embrace.

Only for Linnett to take his attention in the stables.

"How is our... plan, going?" he asked, a nervous edge to his high voice.

"The situation favors us more than ever."

"Aye, it does." The Templar pulled free yet another shining stone. Ram-horn in shape of a sky blue color and Aries formed within it.

Another Zodiac Stone.

He may well have the full set by his return to Mullonde!

"Whence did you find it?" Folmarv secured it to his tabard with all haste.

"Did you feel the earth move on your travels?" A shake for no. "It cracked open the sealed well."

The Black Death could not possibly have survived all these years.

"We sent a man down, warded as we could, to see if the diseased waters slipped into the other wells. He found no water—at all. But that stone buried within."

What better place to safeguard such an artefact?

"We set the man's clothes to flame and secreted it away for your arrival."

"Good work, Linnet."

The Church's rule edged ever closer.

* * *

Travel through the Beddha Sandwaste was the most miserable affair worsened even further by summer's sun whipping its hardest. He spent a good many days pacing his mount through the desert sands. Monsters plenty came rushing out for fresh chocobo meat to sustain them but they were quickly banished by the Unyielding Blade.

When his eyes laid claim to the eastern walls of Fort Besselat it was the most welcome relief in his life.

Even if the most dangerous foe in it was within.

He made entry again, requesting audience with the Thunder God by himself this time.

Seated back down in that well-worn office, patience burned away by his travels, Folmarv moved to the point. "All artefacts related to Saint Ajora should be in the Church's possession, you would agree, do you not, Count?"

The Thunder God's eyes narrowed by a hair. Clear it was he knew exactly the cause for visit and the implications. "Should all coin in a realm find its way to a King's vault?"

An expert reversal. "A King does not own all coin in his realm. But if a thief takes his pouch, yes it should be returned. From King to peasant."

"Even if those coins would feed more mouths?"

"I would leave such judgement to when that came to be," he said, and leaned forward. "A King who has no need of coin for five loaves of bread or a peasant who would feed his own family first."

"If the thief intended solely to feed his brigands then?"

"Much the same as raiding a supply depot in war then."

An amused grin spread lips of both men. "If both sides have valid claim?"

"Then we have a Fifty Years' War that does good for no man."

The implications tore all good cheer from the Count's face. "I mislike this conversation."

"As do I. Shall we be blunt then? We did not become Knights to bare daggers instead of swords."

"What I have will not be taken."

"You are due compensation for it. If not for you, for your lord."

"So even the Gods are salable these days?" The Thunder God leaned back in his chair.

"Are you?"

Cid grunted at the nickname. "I much prefer mortality."

"Sword Saint then."

Another tired grunt came from the man. "So you barter on the High Confessor's word?"

"Mediators, nothing more. No good will come of Lions going to war."

"What need then for such objects?"

"I think it clear, with stone to Ark Knight."

The realization drew Cid forward again. "Clever."

"We sacrificed much in the Fifty Years' War, shall we lose lives or one tiny stone?"

The Sword Saint fell back into his seat again. The years seemed to crease his face with each breath. In a single instant he procured a stone. A brilliant bright orange in the form of a quarter circle marked with Libra. "Take it." He tossed the stone in Folmarv's waiting hand.

"Ivalice is the better for this, Cid." said Folmarv as he stood. "You have my word on it." He secured the stone with the rest.

No reply came from the tired old man across from him.

Folmarv gave one last word before he left. "Do not hold it against him, Count."

The Thunder God did not reply.

The Zodiac Stone was worth more than turning the Thunder God's spies towards Mullonde.

* * *

He was no fool. Upon leaving Besselat he kept to untraveled roads and off-beaten paths. Cid would have trackers on him and they needed to be lost.

Such routes required a great deal of danger, far more monsters than normal ways.

His sword arm grew steadily more tired the more bodies he left in his wake.

But travel to Lionel and outside the reach of either Lion was worth it.

Four stones. Four more Braves to solidify.

Himself foremost, Leo as was his sign. Another for Isilud for now. One to Meliadoul in the future.

For the last? The High Confessor wanted Virgo: Saint Ajora's sign-stone. Thus far it had eluded them even further. Beoulve then.

Rimmed in muck and many days overdue did Grand Master Folmarv Tengille arrive at Lionel Castle. He marched through the gates and moved through the halls to the Cardinal's room.

He barged into the room—to the surprised visages of eight people.

"Lord Folmarv!?" near-all said in unison.

For what matter Isilud, Barich, Beoulve and the Herial boy were here was irrelevant. "Templars to me. We take ship to Mullonde at once."

"What happened to you, Lord Father?" asked Isilud.

"We speak on ship. Move."

"Hold, Grand Master," Cardinal Delacroix ordered him. "We've yet to debrief fully of their events, nor yours."

"I've matters most sensitive of mine own," he replied. Too many untrustworthy hands. "That must be accomplished with at once."

"A word in private, then?"

"I decline, Eminence. I speak with the High Confessor as soon as able."

"Yes, of course. Safe trip to you all."

"Templars, come," he ordered. "You as well, Heiral." The brown-haired boy moved to speak but a glare cut him off. With a swallow in his throat and a nod he fell in line.

* * *

 **Author's Note: This feels rushed but... Better than getting bogged down for another five Chapters apiece, I think.**

 **Thanks for reading and have a truly nice day.**


	30. Chapter 29: Reverse Side March

**Chapter 29: Reverse Side March**

Lord Folmarv's arrival and demands had been so baffling that Cid had required second—and third—confirmation from his soldiers that, yes, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar had sought him, spoke at length with him, and departed.

A good slap across the face was the last evidence he needed.

The Libra stone had been a family keepsake for generations and he briefly mused on what his father might say if he learned of this. Happy? Infuriated?

House Orlandeau were never the most devout of nobles, true, like all they believed in Saint Ajora, that he was the son of the Gods. But none since their founding had given the gemstone to those who would be its proper keepers.

This level of directness was grave. If the Church was using their influence against him, they were certainly doing the same for the White Lion.

Folmarv was no fool, he knew that Cid would think as such. Was Libra that valuable? Or was this a further ploy?

The advantage gained if the Grand Master spoke the truth however, was too great to ignore.

He would not ignore the Church, either.

He sent for men to track and follow Lord Folmarv. Discreet. Clear was Lionel his goal but he needed to be sure how far did the Grand Master go to cover his trail.

Paper to ink a message to Duke Goltanna as well. He could not impugn the Church so brazenly, simply inform him of what transpired.

As for Messam?

That could be dealt with in person.

* * *

Within fleshly shell he claimed; return to its quarters it did.

Rage flowed like lovely poisons covering and destroying room's adornments.

So close—they howled—for release and revenge; drink deep and eat fat of mortal man.

Body most fit before him yet all were gaping.

Power he was but no fool.

Patience the undying ally; blood would flow inevitable.

Oh High Seraph why must ye be gone?

* * *

The Grand Master's marshaling had them in Warjilis before day's break. Exhausted beyond measure, none of them saw fit to confront the borderline fanatical march he demanded of them.

The Templarate head ordered the _Clarity of Faith_ 's captain to set sail. The sailor refused, claiming the majority of his crew still ashore but the Grand Master would not be stopped. He threatened the man with charges if he did not obey.

Cursing under his breath, the captain resigned himself to a superior's orders, and the ship took to the waters, sans most of its crew.

Folmarv gave no reason as why, retiring to quarters within without another word. Barich shrugged and went to his own. Isilud followed suit right after, some concern for his father, but the exhaustion of the days a face more evident.

That left Ramza and Delita on deck (along with a skeleton crew of Templarate sailors).

Tired, and still sore from the attack, there was naught he wanted but to fall to sleep.

But was perfect time to speak.

He approached his friend. "Ramza, a word?"

"Of course." He nodded as well.

The two of them took station near the ship's front. Watching as the sun began its journey and struck against the sea.

"What is it you desired to speak of?" asked Ramza.

There was no secret to be kept from him. "I hate this country."

He did not seem fully taken aback by this. "I understand."

"Do you?" his voice rose.

"She was sister to me as well, Delita." His eyes did narrow.

His anger burned. "So once said your brother."

"He is my brother no more. Only you."

Words that once filled him with bride only smothered the flames within. "What do you seek with Church's grace?"

"Pardon?" he stood dumbstruck.

"Yes, we may save lives today, but what of the ones north? When Lions War what will you accomplish?"

"I know not." A sigh left Ramza.

"Would you abandon Templar's creed and run to their defense?"

"Would you?"

"I am no Templar," he evaded an answer.

"But you are a good person."

"Good?" Delita stared at his friend. "What does good do without the ability to enforce it?"

"Endeavor..." Ramza trailed off.

"Pardon?"

He shook his head. "I know not if a man's efforts can rise him above his station, Delita."

Their conversation on Mandalia's plains...

"Only," he continued, "that Wiegraf Folles' efforts have been inscribed into my mind forever. Milleuda's last desperate breaths. The Fortress... I know not about station but to say a commons is powerless is wrong. Their wills are one with mine."

"You are still Beoulve."

"No longer."

"Even if you shed your name now, what then? This does not put end to your brother's acts or erase your past."

"Then we forge a future."

"Excuse me?" Delita blinked in surprise.

"I..." Ramza paused. He did not seem to know what he meant. "I do not know, exactly, what I mean. Only that it felt right to say. There is little in my power to change, but what I can, I will."

What twist of fate had done this? Here he come to propose the same to Ramza and yet the offer was extended firstly back?

It was enough to earn a deep laugh and utter bewilderment from Ramza.

"Ramza," said Delita as his laughter died down, "if it were in my power I would change Ivalice."

"I think it beyond any power but the Gods'," he grimly remarked.

"I want to change it. No longer shall any commons be slain for nobles' convenience. No more ships whose cargo is slaves. No more men I cannot trust to provide for those 'beneath' them."

"You sound alike to Wiegraf."

"I would join him," he said, and turned away. "I see now his side." Though the hatred for laying hand on Tietra would burn forever more. Would he lay but a single glimpse of the white knight his sword would be in hand to his throat before a blink. "And it was right."

"Nay," said Ramza, "'twas not."

Delita stared wide-eyed at him. "You talk in circles now."

"The Ivalice I wish for, is one where there was no Ziekden Fortress. Where Dead Men were paid due and no swords ever raised in rebellion."

It very well sounded like glass cracking as Ramza spoke.

There would be no reconciliation.

No alliance.

Nothing but fantasies.

"Idealism..." Delita sighed at the word. "'Tis not the world we live in where that happens, Ramza."

"Only because men do not try."

"Try as we might what have we accomplished?" He threw arms wide. "What have we done to make difference true?"

"Now it is you who speaks in circles," said Ramza, weary at the sight. "Mayhap our presence accomplished naught much at the Endeavor. Our acts against the Corpse Brigade only worsened. We must try. That, is the cornerstone of Wiegraf's message."

"And where is the great Wiegraf Folles now?" questioned Delita. "Vanished, with his ideals. Powerless and broken and useless. Words are naught without force to marshal them."

"Why then do we so deeply discuss him?"

"Because he killed Tietra!" Delita exploded with all the fury kept sweltering beneath. "He may not have been the one to give order, to kidnap her, but 'tis his fault!"

Ramza took the fury like it was a cool breeze. "Milleuda's words..." he lowered his face. "I am sorry Delita."

 _It is enough that you can stand there before me in ignorance of the misdeeds done us. You may not see the world beyond your high walls, but that does not mean they mark its boundaries. It may well be you've done no wrong. It is your place in the world that drives my hatred on. You bear the name Beoulve, and that name is my enemy._

Her last true words blazed in his mind brighter than sun in sky.

Even as he agreed with Wiegraf's statements, it sickened him to the core. It was all a damned cycle of hypocrisy. Noble hated commons. Commons hated noble. All for the same exact reasons.

Because that was how they were born.

"Ramza, I _hate_ this country," he said on the verge of a shout. "I want to change this country. I want to break this damnable cycle that creates men like me who would drag every damn noble down in the dirt and stab them."

"Now who talks of idealism?" Nevertheless did Ramza smile at him.

"I will do it. Even with my meager power, even if I am old and gray, by my lonesome or dead and buried I will end it."

"Nay Delita," Ramza shook his head, "you shall never be alone whilst I am your friend." He offered his hand.

Delita took it.

"Tolerate no injustice," Ramza did repeat his Lord Father's words.

"From nobles," said Delita.

"To commons."

"The royal family."

"Even the Church."

Their grip was a resolution firmer than anything Ivalice could throw at them. They would change this country. Of that, he was certain.

* * *

Sleep never took them, the second wind (or third, perhaps) kept them awake through the day as the ship sped towards Mullonde. Soreness still took hold of his body so Delita rested as well as he could.

By time the ship returned to Mullonde's port all his mind held was collapsing in a bed (even with the sun still above).

Folmarv marched down the departure ramp first, the very second he was able. His gait was wide and he took clear haste in whatever message he was to deliver. He was gone towards the High Cathedral well before the rest of them were to the barracks.

Crossing the training courtyard was the swiftest path to a bed.

All thoughts seared away as his eyes laid upon the familiar man standing within. All the ideas and ideals he'd just spoken of tarnished with drawn steel. Days of exhaustion thrown aside with a single name: "Wiegraf Folles!"

* * *

 **Author's Notes: I've read that the Lucavi generally talk in iambic pentameter. Well, much as I tried (I had a dictionary open looking for word stress), I couldn't do it. Just something in my brain that doesn't properly take to word stress, I guess. Like how I can't whistle at all either.**

 **Spiritblade: Thank you for your Review and that piece you did. It's nice! I actually expanded the Chapter to include the Delita-Ramza stuff (it would have been its own otherwise).  
**

 **Guest: Thank you for your Review. I will certainly try to be clearer. Battles from one person's perspective rarely have a full view, so it limits my writing somewhat.  
**

 **Thank you new Favorite, and new Follow. Thank you all for reading and have a fantastic day.**


	31. Chapter 30: Dead Man's March

**Chapter 30: Dead Man's March**

His hands piled the last clumps of earth to cover grave. Summer-soft dirt baked hard by sun's harsh rays. Rain had not fallen upon the plains in months yet drips of sweat and tear did blacken stain the ground.

Whipping clean his eyes of sorrow's escape, he knelt down at the unadorned grave. "Milleuda, pray forgive me," said Wiegraf Folles. "I thought to caress you with tale of swift vengeance yet here I lay, success only in grave maker's act."

His stomach growled—half-empty at best of times and that was several days prior. Even with Brigade's end Northern Sky sight still toiled the lands of Gallione for his hide. Nights in cave, beneath open air; no face to show in public. Armor battered and beat, sword cracked from many a monster skull broke through and cut to eat. No sign nor word of his sister's killers. Months it had taken to arrive here, at her end. Bodies long since taken by elements.

Swords not so.

He drew her blade, an old, battered companion from the War. It had saved her life yet a dozen times. She did not deserve this death, none of them did.

Yet here he stood, sheathing it within the earth as marker.

"By all the power I holy beneath this heavens I vow: We shall have our justice, my dear sister."

"A proper prayer, I would join you then."

Wiegraf spun, blade at the ready, pointed towards the man advancing from the north. Clad in a hooded coat of teal, he did not so much as blink at the threat levied at him.

"I've no purpose to match blade with the leader of the Dead Men." His hands did not insomuch as twitch towards the sword resting at his side.

"Dead Men and Corpse Brigade no longer though I will force you the prior if you do not make plain your purpose."

"Forgive me, I salt upon wounds too fresh." He offered a deep nod. "I have but humble mission to lead the wayward children of Ivalice and pray for the souls of the dear departed."

"You are some manner of priest? With sword and armor so extravagant? I would sooner confuse you a jester than as such."

The false priest bent to his knees, hands knitted close in prayer. "High Father Faram, may you grant safe passage for the souls of the departed. May their life in Paradise be everlasting and kind."

It would be a simple thing but to end this man's life, here and now. But it was too curious to be a base bounty hunter. "Whom are you?" he asked.

"My name is Loffrey, here at the behest of men you knew well."

"Ha!" His laughter may well be heard to Eagrose for how absurd the situation was! "All men I count as friend lie within the earth and all those I call enemy would not send such an assassin. Seed your lies elsewhere, 'priest'."

"The Corpse Brigade does not die, not yet. Not while you still draw breath. Not whilst your acts embolden others."

"Embolden?" Wiegraf spat to the ground at the thought. "We would be exchanging the steel of swords rather than words if the commons had but a spark of courage. Nay, we are the 'villains' who destroy their livelihood for stealing food to feed ourselves while nobles take thrice more and tax tenfold that."

"You would fight to the last then."

"Them or I, I will die on my feet."

A welcome smile answered back. "You are exactly the man I seek then. The man Reeves spoke so highly of?"

"Reeves?" he let slip and inwardly cursed himself for it. Reeves was only a small-unit leader but was one of the men remaining in the Corpse Brigade's last stand near Ziekden Fortress.

"He lives, prospers even."

"I would sooner believe Dycedarg Beoulve a saint than such lies."

"Believe what your eyes see then," the man—Loffrey, said. He reached into his surcoat—Wiegraf readied himself for trickery, but the man only drew a small letter out. "A message, to be given to you, written by his own hand."

Wiegraf laughed at the fool's attempt. "Spin your lies the better, next you weave them. Reeves writes naught, even his own name eludes him."

"He learned, with four others. Working legally, beyond Northern sight."

From his guise... "Oh, do they bend knee for the Gods as well?"

"As do all men, but, pray tell me, how would I know where your sister's body lies if not for the man who told me."

It was the first thing to give him true pause. None but her slayers, him and those handful who mayhap survived...

"What gain you of this?" Wiegraf put the question out.

"You are not the only man who would see Ivalice free of the grip of the nobility."

"Where was such support when I had a hundred men at my back?" He gave no answer back but silence. "You mean to use me. As you use Reeves to get to me."

"Such is the way of the world. As we use the farmer to feed, the blacksmith to pound metal and the innkeeper to house. Coin that trade those hands always have two faces. Yes, we shall use you, as you would us. To tear apart the wrongs of this country. Shall you alone the might to venge Milleuda? Or shall it be with Reeves, and ours, at your side?"

The boys that slew her had already bested him once.

He needed power.

There was no path save this. Ideals without power were meaningless. A ripple was nothing compared to a wave.

"I shall listen."

His sword slid back to its sheath.

* * *

'Twas not difficult to presume their destination, from Loffrey's intents. Magick City Gariland, and passage to Mullonde. The Templar (as he revealed) had already made the preparations well in advance. A change of clothes, armor and sword waited for him at chocobos nearby. Enough to sneak past Northern Sky sentries and the freedom of the sea.

At the very least, a welcome change of armament was acquired. As well as enough food to fill his belly for the first time in a year. Even if it was but over-salted military ration and he gulped down three skins of water to combat it.

Loffrey offered terse, but accurate conversation. He would not go too deeply into details of what awaited (smart) but baited enough to keep Wiegraf's interests.

Though no answer was ever forthcoming for why they had waited rather than cast their lot in with the Brigade earlier.

They were not comrades, but they may yet be allies. A distinction he would be well-guarded to maintain.

With his features hidden by helmet, he finally set foot with civilization for the first time in months.

Naught had changed.

A spark indeed.

They stabled the chocobos with a local church before taking to the city's port.

It was a weathered but fair vessel that granted them passage to Mullonde. Crewed by brusque Templarate sailors that swiftly struck up conversations Wiegraf had no desire to answer. They were a friendly enough lot regardless.

He slept with one eye open all the same.

In the free time after waking but before docking he saw fit to read Reeves' letter. Even if the man had learnt lettering 'twas still amateurish, the same grade as a pampered noble son. Less so, even.

But the words contained within, scrawl though they were, could only be from Corpse Brigade hands. Operations the Northern Sky knew nothing of. Secrets they'd take to the grave with them.

Ones these Templars surely knew as well now.

There was some manner of comfort gained from treat of alliance rather than meet of Northern Sky swords.

The ship docked somewhat before midday. He set foot in civilization without helmet. It was more refreshing than the sea breeze.

Loffrey bid him follow.

To the Grand Cathedral of Mullonde. A shining example to misplaced opulence and grandiose. How many mouths could the gold inlays feed? How many bodies sheltered in winter would these carpets and silks cover?

Loffrey brought him to a door kept guarded by ten men clad with significant arms and severe glares (obvious even beneath their closed helms). It could not be clearer how little they trusted him. How many could he slay before their numbers took him? Half? At best? Better steel he wore, but far beneath their diamond.

"This is for you alone," said Loffrey.

They did not check his blade. How many more swords awaited beyond that door?

He entered—found none.

Only a single old man sitting in a chair across from him.

One familiar to any man, even passing faithful like Wiegraf.

"To be granted audience with the High Confessor himself is not what crossed my mind."

"Oh?" a mirthful smile appeared from his great beard. "Tell me, Wiegraf Folles, what did occupy your mind's time on this journey?"

Wiegraf ignored him. "I could slay you without a single of those knights to stop me."

"To what end?"

"To make a difference."

"You are far from the first man to make such a claim."

"Is this where you offer the absolution of your station? That you are beyond reproach?"

"No man is beyond reproach."

Wiegraf bitterly laughed at that. "Do all priests share a sense of japery I never realized?

"This station is far from such."

"Where then was this support while my men and I fought against Norther Sky swords!?" his patience expired in the explosion.

"Where then, are those men you fought besides?"

"Dead!" he declared the obvious. "And now you beseech my support for same cause—tell me then, High Confessor, why should I lend steel to your efforts when my own were rewarded naught."

The High Confessor shook his head. "You ask question for answer you gave. Dead." He gave a nod—as if it was a perfectly acceptable response.

Wiegraf's ire only grew. "I hear nothing of why my sword should be yours."

"If we had given our aid to your cause we would be crushed, as you had."

"Yet now you claim power to surpass them."

"When you've but a single quarrel in your bowgun, you must use it wisely."

It earned another laugh from Wiegraf. "To hear such words leave the High Confessor's lips is naught I would ever imagine."

"I am as human as you are."

"Hardly," Wiegraf pointed to the gilded decadence surrounding them. "Even what I clad myself in comes from your coffers."

"One makes due with what they hold," said the High Confessor. "From commons to noble to Church."

"Words of those with bread to eat and worries to choose between clothes."

"And men of purpose and action. We do not act because it would accomplish naught."

Wiegraf crossed his arms at the statement. "Your words are the Gods' words. By your lips Kings are made and commons take arms."

"Wheat before scythe's edge. Even men with a swordarm were but a few weeks effort to vanquish."

"Numbers mean much. Even the Royal Family would not challenge tenfold the greater against them with Church backing."

"Fields of corpses and mass graves your desire?" asked the High Confessor. "His Majesty King Denamda IV was beloved and still put villages to the torch. Her Majesty has no such scruples or support amongst the commons. She would sooner see Ivalice a blackened field than a crown from her head."

"What fantasy plays in your head to some other answer?"

"Let Lions bear their fangs and swipe with their claws."

The pieces to this puzzle fell into their proper places quite quickly. Take advantage of warring Lions to rise up. If his own cause had been but a year later... "War between the provinces shall see more blood spilled."

"Much of it the fetid blood of nobles and lowlife knights."

" _Much_ ," stressed Wiegraf. "Well enough of it still commons, with destroyed fields and their farms taxed away. Bloodless, aye, but starved bodies instead."

"Now you spill worry for commons?"

"Difference due between arms raised of own accord and spears forced into unwelcoming hands."

The High Confessor smiled once again. "You are exactly the man I sought, Wiegraf Folles."

His name... "What would you have me do?" It took his mind he knew exactly what.

"You are a clever man, so I shall not talk down to you. If arms raised of own accord you wish, then let them."

"You desire I lead the peasantry."

"As you once did. Commons men fought as well as knights under your care. With payment in kind, this time."

"I've heard enough lies for three lifetimes."

"If I thought you'd take my words at their value our conversation would be much shorter," said the High Confessor. "But your words already have the answer?"

For the first time he actually was confused. But as the High Confessor moved his arms wide it dawned upon him. "You would sale this?"

"We would simply be returning the wealth to those peoples who gifted it to us in the first place."

"I've heard words such as these before, what guarantee do I have?"

"There are none such guarantees beneath these heavens but the Gods' love."

"You would have my life risked on naught."

"Much as the Corpse Brigade did march thus, no? You would not have stepped foot into these halls if you did not intend to see the truth."

Wiegraf unfolded himself. "Truth, mayhap, yes." Wiegraf took a step forward. "I've yet to declare myself this cause my own, but I would see where your words direct. You may yet count my sword amongst your own."

He welcomed him with a wide smile. "My the Gods look favorably upon your decision."

"I will settle for mortal deeds for this coil."

"You seek your sister's killers."

More of Reeves' words. "Your beliefs cede to mine on this. Naught shall stave vengeance's hand."

"Ignorance does not save a man."

"I've no need of saving!"

"Loffrey would declare otherwise."

Such presumptions. "I tire of this," he turned back towards the door, "I would presume quarters are arranged?"

"Speak with Loffrey."

"I shall."

He left the shining hold of the High Confessor's gaze for the angered looks of the Templars outside. Only Loffrey, eyes as blank as before, seem unfazed by words shouted through door.

With only a nod, the Templarate left.

There was an elation within to survive a meeting with a man of such prestige as the High Confessor. How many who walked these halls had not surrendered every shred of taught and bent knee carelessly before him?

He was no puppet of the Church.

Loffrey's path led outside the Cathedral and down one of several paths. Towards a walled building that was like the Templarate Barracks—confirmed quickly inside with the halls host to men bearing the colors.

Rather than a room, the Templar Officer showed him to a courtyard, four others armored in similar garb as him.

"Well, if I'm not mistaken that is Wiegraf Folles," said the woman in orange.

"My diversion in Gariland is paying dividends even now," said the young man in white.

"What do you mean?" asked Wiegraf, entering the conversation on his own terms.

"Your friend Reeves thought it a wise decision to occupy a church in Gariland. My unit managed to capture him before he fell to Northern Sky swords."

"I would offer you my thanks then."

"Already more polite than your man and—oh dear."

"Wiegraf Folles!"

He spun around, sword already in hand—men who shouted his name did not do so peacefully! Just able to move it swiftly enough to stop another from striking his skull. He twisted and kicked his attacker away—the boy from the Windflats!?

"Stop this at once!" the woman yelled to no avail as the boy rushed back in.

Anger and hatred gave him a monstrous strength.

Reckless anger was easy to read and Wiegraf parried the next thrust to gain distance.

He still belonged to the unit that slew Milleuda. Cold anger against hot. Let them see which was the stronger!

The boy moved his sword above (a stance filled with openings) and swung downwards. Wiegraf stepped back, the sword struck the ground hard and the boy stunned himself. Wiegraf stepped, pinned the boy's sword down with his boot. He swung at the boy's wrists but he let go, and fell back. But without a weapon, victory became clear.

He balled his fists.

Lightning struck.

Wiegraf cried out in agony as he was blasted by the sudden bolts of magic. He doubled forward from the sudden shock, every bit of his body stinging—the boy kneed him in the face and pushed him back—retrieving his sword.

Was it another? Or had one of the other Templars struck him?

He looked around—and saw the Beoulve boy behind him.

In Templarate tabard.

'Twas all some trick to offer his head to House Beoulve then! He'd lest yet get vengeance on Milleuda's killers! "Ramza Beoulve!" he issued his own roar of challenge and gathered his own magicks to strike him down. Let him feel when lightning stabs!

"Stop!"

The boy's blade shattered.

The Beoulve was crushed to the ground when the man wearing gold crashed upon him.

The perfect opportunity to strike!

But his arm refused to move. The magick he swirled sputtered and dissipated. His body slowed, his feet stopped. Struggle all he could there was naught but his eyes and mind worked.

"Silent casting is such a bother," the young man in white walked into view. If he could glare Wiegraf would. "It's scary, I know, being stopped as such. You can't even feel the clothes, can you?"

He could feel anger well enough!

The woman Templar knocked the boy to the ground as well. Another boy in green and a man in black, that smiled, also walked into view.

"Let me go!" the boy struggled against his restrainer. "It's because of him that Tietra is dead!"

Tietra? His sister. So Gragoroth had not released her. Perished in the Fortress, most assured.

"Keep your heads," said Loffrey, stepping into view himself. "We've all come together for our own reasons and one goal."

The overpowering urge to laugh managed something of a twitch to his lips. The Beoulve brat sought to claw down the aristocracy? Tear his own House down?

"What goal is there in siding with this murderer!?" the boy shouted.

Were his arms working...

"Speak first—act then."

"I've firsthand how his words work: _not_. Whatever he claims his reason he lies."

The woman shook her head. "We'd but started this conversation when you intruded Heiral."

A slight bit of movement.

"Then I save you his lies."

He felt his blood flowing, odd as it was.

"I've little patience for this."

Feeling returned to his skin.

"Hold," said the boy in green. "Lord Father arrived with us, he should be done with the High Confessor soon."

Whoever that was earned looks from the rest.

Including the man in white looking away.

Enough for Wiegraf to finish this himself! Magick to the blade—that shattered apart in his hand. He had not infused it to such a degree and his returned body shunted away from the broken blade.

"I am much against pointless waste of resources," a new, deep and stern voice preceded its owner stepping into view.

Folmarv Tengille.

He'd seen the man once during the War, knew of him now as the Grand Master of the Knights Templar.

"Ebb your anger Wiegraf or I shall strip you of all trappings of knighthood you posses," said the Grand Master with a severe glare to accompany it.

"I repeat what I declared to the High Confessor himself, 'your beliefs cede to mine on this', I will accept no mercy for the killers of my sister."

"Nor will I!" the boy yelled.

"Fine, you've both minds for vengeance, as does every other man in Ivalice."

"Do not confuse me for him!"

A slight narrowing of his eyes preceded the Grand Master's next words. "This avails us nothing. Secure the three of them their quarters with guard. I've no manner of dealing with this now."

"You shall," Wiegraf promised. Beoulve support or his—sickening obvious which it would be. "Honey your words of noble's end while barking as Beoulve dog. I tire of baldfaced lies."

"All sides lay claim to hating another for their births. Prejudice is a city with many streets."

The boy ceased his struggles.

"Commons, noble or royal I shall hate them for their part in my sister's murder."

"This goes nowhere," he nodded at his subordinates. "Speak whence your tempers even and mind's even. Rage holds no place amongst allies."

To Gustav's fate then.

Without further word from the Grand Master he was gripped and escorted to quarters.

He cared little for the furnishing while the targets of his vengeance lie so close. There was no window to escape, no yells that opened the door. Naught but his rage to consume thoughts.

Imprisoned in a different way.

Though it was the first bed he slept on in years.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Whew, that ended up being way longer than I intended and even with such an abrupt way to end. But I'm not half as tired as Folmarv or dealing with anything as serious yet I wanted it done.**

 **SquareRootofNine: Thank you for your Review. I'm glad you're pleased with the characterization so far. This story has actually reinvigorated my writing desires, so I am very into it. I'm researching a great deal of minor minutia for world building purposes. I will keep it up to the best of my abilities.  
**

 **reyria: Thank you for your Review, which was quite readable. Yes, this story will eventually have Ramza x Ovelia (along with others). The site's limitation for Character tags makes it vague. (Isilud and Meliadoul and Folmarv and Cletienne can easily clamor for tag status themselves.) I'll do my best to keep writing and finish this. Reviews certainly help to keep my motivation going.  
**

 **Thank you new Favorites and Follows and thank you all for reading and have an incredible day.**


	32. Chapter 31: Repercussions

**Chapter 31: Repercussions**

Midday after Wiegraf's arrival and Delita had yet to be released from his arrest. Aggravated night's sleep had not heralded any calm to the storm inside his heart. His shouts to his jailers had gone unanswered as his stomach's growls had gone unplacated. He'd no frame for whence this torture would end and so his thoughts grew wild with how vengeance would be quenched.

The bolt was reserved for the heart's of Dycedarg and Zalbaag. Milleuda was slain with the sword, so her brother should join in her the ground with one. Mayhap her own blade even?

...By the Gods what was he doing? He'd damn-near shed tears for the woman and now he sought to profane it all in his vengeance.

He'd roused Ramza with talk of shattering this detestable cycle yet here he lie rounding to its whims once again.

It had not been Wiegraf that slew his sister. Though he held responsibility for the act he was not the true focus of his ire.

Let him beholden to all crimes done under his order. More enough to be taken to executioner's axe.

* * *

Morning's meal never came and with it clear intent. Wiegraf spent his last living hours fashioning what weapons he could in as discreet a fashion as possible. Too much noise would attract dangerous attention and he'd like to take as many of the backstabbers with him as he could.

A makeshift bracer-shield for his left crafted from broken boards and strung together with bedsheet. Sharpened sticks enough to handle a single use of Holy Sword skills and replacement enough for when they shattered of his use or foe's Unyielding Blade.

Let them come. He would burn the name Wiegraf Folles into their memories forever.

* * *

From the High Confessor's mouth came the talk of forgiveness and absolution for Wiegraf Folles and yet never did Ramza truly believe it would come to pass. Yet now stood the leader of the Corpse Brigade within Templar's midst. Never again would he underestimate the Church's reach, if even lord brothers failed to find the man.

But his sudden presence here had sabotaged everything Ramza sought to accomplish. All the accusations and blame flooded back through the dam he'd build these past months and unleashed with lightning's mighty strike. Peace and clemency struck down so swiftly and effortlessly. Byproduct of another's crimes.

Nay... 'twas his lips that uttered the chant that sent those bolts. Too enthralled with the moment to think otherwise. He could not—would not—fall prey to such recklessness. He needed to keep calm. If he'd kept calm he could have prevented Ziekden Fortress. There were so myriad the options availed to him that any one could have secured Tietra's release. But awash in concern for her, for Delita; Lord Brother and Argath standing in the snow naught had taken his mind.

 _"This changes nothing, Argath. Loose your attack!"_

Even but a chant of protect may have warded bolt enough to save her life.

And Wiegraf had Tietra of his own.

For all his presumptuous talk of bringing Dycedarg and Zalbaag to justice, did Ramza and Delita deserve the same fate for Wiegraf? And all those slain by Corpse Brigade swords and those slain in kind?

As Delita spoke, a cycle of hatred.

There must be manner by which to end it.

Yet even Delita fell to its dangers.

Mayhap a child's wish to change a country but turning blind eye to its injustices was more so.

Surely did the Grand Master and High Confessor think of such. Why else bring Wiegraf here?

Was this to be a test of forgiveness? For whom then?

Such thoughts could consume his mind for a lifetime. Yet a lifetime he did not have. Whatever intent was Ramza would know of it soon, that was certain. Though their arrival was sudden it would have been effortless for the other Officers to intervene of hide Wiegraf sooner.

A knock came to his door, a small bit of surprise to jump him. "Ramza," the Grand Master's voice came through. "Exit your room."

He did as instructed. In the hall outside, Folmarv stood with Claudino and Isilud at his side. "You're the only one who hasn't tried to escape."

"'Twould be pointless," he plainly spoke. His windows were wide enough to leave, but running was never his option.

"Those two would have each other's throats if we'd let them. You must speak them down."

"I? Delita, mayhap," and even that was a stretch, "but Wiegraf would never agree."

"Your friend treats little with others and Wiegraf responds most to you."

"For reasons most foul. His sister's blood lays on my hands forevermore."

"You are the common link between them."

Ramza gave a frustrated sigh. "I've no choice in this, do I?"

"No," said Lord Folmarv.

This was work best left to the High Confessor. "I shall do my utmost."

"This is not a 'try' moment, Ramza, this is 'succeed'."

As if enough pressure did not weigh his shoulders already. "The you shall have your new Templars." Or my head, it would seem.

"Good, Isilud and Claudino shall ensure nothing untoward happens beforehand."

His back still ached from the large Templar landing atop him. "I pray their aid shall not be needed."

"I've business to attend with the High Confessor, whence I return I shall be expecting the two of their tempers calmed."

"Yes, sir."

Lord Folmarv gave a nod and departed. The Nightblades watched him go, with Isilud the first to speak up. "Quite the burden you now bear, aye?"

Ramza gave a terse laugh. "You're the ones to prevent Wiegraf from taking his vengeance upon my head. I rather think that the more difficult task."

"Oh? Claudino smiled. "You've a plan in mind to turn his thoughts so swiftly?"

"Mayhap," he blatantly lied. He'd not the faintest hint of how to accomplish this. "I shall keep you waiting with bated breath 'til then."

"I shall desire my breath taken forthwith then! Come," said Claudino with far too much cheer in his voice, "let us welcome our Templar brother!"

Ramza could not stopper the other Templar's eagerness and lifelessly agreed. Taking the lead, his mind raced with thoughts of how best to turn Wiegraf's follies towards right cause. All came blank. Mayhap delivered by another's lips, could the Corpse Brigade leader be made ally but so long as Milleuda's blood did stain his hands would no words breach such hardness.

Wiegraf's door was guarded by Alfredo and two unfamiliar Templars. All clad still in their armor, Ramza's lack of such made him the surest target of Wiegraf's wroth.

As if there was any ever doubt.

Exchanging a quick set of explanations, Alfredo presented the keys as all the armed Templars took up positions should Wiegraf attempt escape.

Taking a deep breath, Ramza opened the door. "Wiegraf I would treat with you."

Crushed by ice-not-cold he was—struck by Judgement Blade so familiar to before.

"This shall not dissuade me! As you are not yet satisfied with noble's laws!"

"Ramza!" yelled Isilud in concern.

"Hold fast, 'tis my effort to bear this."

Another of the crushing strikes of false ice entombed him. Blisters wrought his skin open and sore. Whatever the focus Wiegraf did use was paltry. Two such strikes with true sword would have struck him down.

Ramza took a deep breath in and focused on reinvigorating himself with chakra. The energy of life exclaimed at his command and mended flesh.

He could ward himself with protect and shell yet this was his task to bear. "I was the one who killed Milleuda," he announced.

Another set of the blade's intervention sent him to his knees. "She died for her beliefs."

Another! Panting on the ground Ramza forced the chakra to heal even as the false frost sapped his stamina. "She was better than you."

The next one sent Ramza near to floor.

Isilud rushed to his side, holding unto him. "If you've a suicide wish there's better means to go about it Ramza!"

"I'm putting an end to this." said Alfredo.

"No," Ramza pushed away from his friend. Chakra's reaches could not cure what assailed him this utterly. Sweat mixed with blood. "Face me Wiegraf! 'Tis what you always wanted! Fair treatment at noble's table!"

Ramza collapsed under the next barrage.

"Or shall you finally admit your hypocrisy in this? That you had hand in Milleuda's demise as well?"

His lips cracked a smile as the door in front of him splintered apart and Wiegraf rushed outwards more furious than anything Ramza had seen in his life. The Corpse Brigade leader burned a red brighter than the blood-soaked Beoulve.

The makeshift weapon, a small sharpened stick swung towards Ramza's head, but 'twas intercepted by swords of all others. They pried it away, rent the makeshift shield Wiegraf had fashioned in twain and restrained the furious fighter.

"I'll see you dead for this you bastard of a Beoulve!" the Brigade leader screamed.

Every inch of his skin did ache as he spoke. "I've no desire to see either of us ushered to Paradise this day, Wiegraf."

"So my execution is the morrow? Or week's time? All the same I shall have my way if you do not strike me down now."

"This day or any other—save when we are both old and gray."

"I've taken by the honeyed trap of Templar words once before—never again!"

This was impossible… "My ties with my lord brothers are cut. My service is in the name of the Gods and justice."

"Justice? You mime at a word repeated oft enough throughout history to indulge every atrocity. If you crave 'justice' let my sword find your neck!"

"If my death could right any wrongdoing… I still would not take it. I am not noble enough as Milleuda to die for cause just." Wiegraf's struggles doubled at his sister's name. "Nor are you."

Wiegraf near broke free from the hands holding him back. "I have stabbed at the heart of the nobility. Raised banner for cause where all others would break."

"Yet you ran," said Ramza, as plain as he could. "While Milleuda, even as we offered her succor, swung her sword. Even as she was impaled on mine. You are a coward, Wiegraf, else you would not be here."

"I need not a lecture on bravery from boy hiding behind his name while Templar hands impede me!"

So it would come down to violence to arbitrate this issue. Corpse Brigade commander—starved for a day, still stinging from effects of lightning striking his personage. Against a body wracked by the holy arts and strung together by repeated infusions of chakra.

He should have brought an elixir.

"Then let us give you the opportunity," said Ramza. "A duel, with fists. No other cadets or Brigade troops between us."

"I refuse," said Alfredo first away. "I'll not stand idly by and let him attempt to kill you." Her grip on the man only tightened.

"Aye," added in Claudino.

Isilud gave a stern look. His answer clear enough.

"I appreciate your concern, but I can handle this."

"I'm not something you can handle, brat!" Wiegraf said with all the venom he wished to inject into the system.

"You claimed Milleuda deserved better fate than struck down by knights apprentices. 'Twas no fluke, I assure you. If I best you I'll have your ear, agreed?"

Wiegraf smiled in spite of the situation. "Agreed."

"Release him."

"Have my lessons clubbed you about the head one too many times?" said Alfredo. "I refused before, I shall do so again and continue to do so. I outrank you."

"Lord Folmarv bid me to convince him, if force would do it, then let me try."

"Stubborn fool of a Beoulve." Alfredo shook her head. "Isilud, retrieve a white mage for when these two bloody themselves dumber than they are."

The young Nightblade sighed. "There is no convincing you then?" he asked.

"Nay, friend."

"Fine." Isilud shook his head as well before releasing his grip on the no-longer-struggling Wiegraf. Once he was sure the Corpse Brigade commander was in no danger of breaking free, he ran off towards the healing ward.

An uneasy tension took its place in the silence. Glares accompanied. Ramza briefly wondered how many ways Wiegraf envisioned how the commons knight would get his vengeance.

This was surely furthest from all minds.

Isilud returned shortly. With the cantankerous head of the medical ward with him.

She berated them all as the fools they were and Ramza bitterly accepted the truth. He did not even ask for his wounds tended. What other word but fool to describe him?

Her stubbornness eroded long before either of theirs.

Slowly, Alfredo and Claudino loosed their grips on the Corpse Brigade commander. He did not run, he did not struggle. He stretched himself, a look of absolute glee on his face.

Ramza took up a stance of his own. Muscles still aching from the repeated strikes. If he had access to a mirror he'd not be surprised to see his face gaunt and pale. The only color from hasted closed wounds.

He'd no idea how versed his foeman was in fisticuffs. Swords and spells flung with tactic use in their last fight. Wiegraf had been aggressive in spite of his advantageous position, and his overextending into the cadet lines had been his downfall.

Like he thought about that fight every night. Best to surprise him then!

Ramza took the initiative. Even as his body rebelled and his footwork moved sloppy he dashed towards his opponent.

Wiegraf betrayed no emotion for his defense, taking Ramza's light, testing jabs, with his left arm.

Lighter than intended due to the injuries.

His foeman realized this and after the tenth block, Wiegraf went on a fierce offensive. Knocking aside Ramza's right arm, the commons knight stepped in for a grapple. Wiegraf attempted to bring his right arm around Ramza's head, but the Beoulve ducked before then.

Right into Wiegraf's knee brought high.

And right back into the hand he just dodged.

His nose ran bloody from each painful strike, but Ramza took both his arms low and grabbed the standing leg of Wiegraf. Too slow did he realize, and Ramza pulled him out.

A resounding thud struck as Wiegraf was forced upon his back. He attempted to kick off Ramza—who was too happy to comply. With some distance gained he threw his fist back out and struck with an aurablast. The invisible punch of energy slammed square into the face of his downed foe.

Wiegraf's attempts to rise were put down each time by whatever energy Ramza could muster into his attacks. But the fire that burned within the commons knight held out longer than Ramza's own. Wiegraf dodged rolled to the side of the fifth aurablast and sprang to his feet with incredible swiftness. He latched back unto the younger man and began striking his exposed ribs with strong punches.

Drained as he was by everything, Ramza could do naught to stop it. Wiegraf's fists battered aside any guard he could muster and his grip was too strong to break away.

So he'd do the opposite.

Ramza held on as tightly was he could to the other man and pulled both to the ground. Their heads narrowly avoiding cracking against the stonework beneath them.

It loosened Wiegraf's arms just enough for Ramza to pull free.

A fleeting moment as Wiegraf collided back on top of him. His hands found purchase around Ramza's neck as he strangled.

Air fleeing him, Ramza could not find perch to push the man off.

Wiegraf's eyes were wide at his victory. All the hate he'd kept inside had its release.

With wakened state leaving him—black edged his vision—Ramza focused what he could into his hand.

He'd force Wiegraf off one way or another.

His hands pushed against the face of his foeman. Wiegraf was not deterred.

Ramza unleashed a pitiful aurablast.

But with straight contact to a vulnerable area was enough to make a reaction from Wiegraf. His hands broke free from Ramza's neck—and the Beoulve choked for air. Commons knight fought his own response and moved back down to restart his strangle but Ramza was too swift. He landed punch to Wiegraf's throat, forcing the older knight to pause and gasp for air all his own.

Ramza pressed his advantage and swung Wiegraf off him. Both men struggled to regain composure in this brawl.

Nothing more remained within. No aurablasts or chakras could exude from Ramza's bosom.

Wiegraf was the less injured, but he was losing what little composure he had. A troubled sleep, unmended lightning wounds, lack of food and drink and this struggle.

Any other circumstance Ramza could wear him down with ease. But with him faltering before him, Ramza needed to end this now.

With one deep breath Ramza retook the initiative. Ten steps was the distance between them and Ramza closed it in half as many. With a flying tackle Ramza collided into Wiegraf and threw both men to the ground.

Whatever preparations Wiegraf had made prevented his head from cracking from the ground once again.

Panicked exchanges of blows between the two men went unblocked.

The numerous blisters on Ramza's skin were tore apart by Wiegraf's frenzied moves; whilst Ramza focused almost exclusively on Wiegraf's bloody and redden faced.

His left arm went limp sometime into the blood-soaked fervor and Wiegraf could hold off one arm with one arm. The advantage was his, even through his red hair.

A perfect opportunity to strike.

Ramza reared his head back—and headbutted Wiegraf right in the eye.

All the cries of pain gone ignored were nothing compared to the meaty crack.

Wiegraf's eyes went dark while his body still breathed.

Ramza let out a pitiful laugh before sliding off to the ground himself. Even if it hurt to do so. To do anything. Breathing, laughing, just laying were nothing but agony and he couldn't be happier.

Well, he could but… he'd take what was in front of him.

And he still had Delita to look forward to after.

The ward matron moved to do her job. Whilst his wounds closed, the sheer exhaustion in every fiber of his being did not come close. It worsened, if anything, as the infused healing worked his already tired body even further. She wiped away much of the blood and sweat that made more his body than flesh, but couldn't clean away the stains of his clothing. He thanked her all the same.

When he could stand with his own power once more, the matron turned her white magicks unto Wiegraf. Though he'd been less visibly injured than Ramza's untold cuts, there was some internal damage from her explanation. The bolt's lingering effects.

He awoke with a groan and a tired resignation of his lose.

"You'll listen now," said Ramza, looking down at the other man, even as the matron continued her duties.

"No."

"What!?"

"How does it feel to be lied to, as we were?" Wiegraf smugly answered.

"I knew that well enough whence Tietra was not in the windmill hut!"

"Even should I listen I would never acknowledge your point. _Ever_."

This had all proven to be a petty waste of time.

"We are not enemies Wiegraf."

"I shall choose whom my enemies are."

Ramza gave a frustrated shake of his head. "Keep him locked away until I can figure something out."

"Planning how to present my head to your brothers then?"

"For your claim you don't intend to listen you continue to speak for more."

"On my terms."

This was almost more tiring than the fight. "I've cut ties with my lord brothers. I've said this before. You were right, they were wrong."

"That changes nothing."

He was right but… "Let's go meet with Delita." Best ignore him now.

Wiegraf continued his resistance even as he was dragged back into the room and shut away. Claudino left to guard him by himself.

Alfredo spoke of the fight on their walk over. How she'd double Ramza's training lessons since she had a far better grasp of his limits.

'Twould be the second scariest thing he heard all day.

Halfway through the walk, Ramza near collapsed—falling to his knee. The elation of victory and white magick couldn't keep him on his feet forever. Isilud half-carried him the rest of the way.

Cletienne was on guard duty for Delita's door. Looking quite bored at being reduced to a warden.

It changed quickly with the explanation and report of what transpired with Wiegraf.

Delita would be a good deal more civil, so Ramza requested to be left alone in the room with his old friend.

Despite some trepidation from Alfredo and Isilud, they allowed it.

As did Delita once he knocked.

The quarters Delita were given were a simple affair, the same as Ramza bunked into upon his arrival.

Delita didn't even look back when he opened the door. Settling to sit on the floor near his bed with his back against the wall.

When he did notice the through signs of a fight he instantly asked, "What happened?"

"A disagreement with Wiegraf," said Ramza, stepping further in and closing the door behind him.

"I should be the one to settle this," said Delita. But 'twas a far cry from the burning rage he exclaimed earlier.

"They brought him here to make use of him, if you'd believe it," said Ramza as he took seat besides his friend.

Delita gave a resigned sigh. "They had you attempt to talk him down then?"

"Aye."

"I as well?"

"That is their intent."

Another sigh left his friend. "They'll use us all the same as your brothers."

"I'd like to think otherwise but…" Thinking otherwise once had brought them here.

"So, how convincing were you?"

"As convincing as the excuses the nobles gave the Dead Men, I'd presume."

"You're a good deal bloodier than he, I'd presume."

"I've the better of him twice now. Mayhap a third thrashing would bring him to his senses."

"I'd rather like to deal that one out." Delita put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "When I laid eyes upon him I lost imyself."

"Quite obvious, that."

Delita shook his head. "I'd forgotten what we just spoke of on the ship. All of it was consumed with wanting to put Wiegraf in a hole right besides Tietra."

"None could blame you—us."

"I can!" Delita relented his hand with his shout. "Gods above if I want my vengeance I can't let it lash out so sloppily."

"Delita…"

"Your brothers… and Wiegraf. Any like them. Challenging them so brazenly accomplishes naught."

"He'd have struck when his gaze turned upon us."

"And then it would have been self-defense. He would be dead or locked away and I would be free."

"You're still free."

"Am I?" Delita looked repulsed at it. But his features softened. "I am." He gave a light chuckle. "I should take my own advice sooner. I am alright. As much as I can be, in any case. "

At least with Delita there was some good of this. "I'll see your meal delivered shortly then."

"Thanks," said Delita. "For everything."

"I am your friend, Delita."

"And I should not take that for granted. Tell your—our superiors I'll submit to their orders from now on."

Even if it may be a ploy. "Very well."

* * *

 **Author's Notes: I must apologize profusely for the significant delay between prior chapters and this one. Last week I was plagued with personal, health and computer problems that made writing a difficult chapter such as this even worse. I am a very momentum-based writer, and losing my drive is nigh impossible to recover from. I hope, I can keep apace better now that I've recovered somewhat, the next Chapter should not be as half as difficult to write.**

 **Sethlas: Thank you for your Review and compliments. Things are only going to get more intense. Even if Delita's turned to ice rather than heat.**

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 **Guest: Thank you for your Review. Here's a nice new chapter to enjoy! I'm glad it caught your eye after so long.**

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	33. Chapter 32: Respite

**Chapter 32: Respite**

The days after Wiegraf's arrival had settled into a routine two days after. While those who went to Lionel were exempt from further training sessions for recovery, they still had other duties to attend to.

Ramza's being the continued perseverance in turning Wiegraf. (Along with a great deal of white magick tending due to his sustained injuries.)

Wiegraf's in being completely impossible to change. Meals at least, were served to him now. Albeit with a great deal of reluctance on the commons knight's part.

Delita finally agreed to serve the Church, at least, on the surface. His quarters were upgraded and he was equipped with Templarate arms of his own. Though, he lacked the Officer's armoring, as Ramza had.

Isilud spent most of his free time undertaking menial tasks to garner back all the gil he spent purchasing the Defender knight sword for Meliadoul. Whilst everyone had pitched in a few gil, most of the fifty thousand gil was his burden to bear.

Barich continued his usual policy of being disgruntled and vengeful towards the nobility. Never wanting to share with Ramza, Delita had nonetheless managed to coax some crumbs of his former life from the machinist. His previous profession had been rife with unfair treatment by the nobility. Small wonder he would find his way to the Church's ways.

Alfredo, without any trainees to torment, had most of her time relishing the new horrors she was going to unleash once she could. Along with a fair amount of meetings in the main Cathedral with the upper echelons.

Claudino did his best to convince Delita to attempt to become a Nightblade along with Isilud. But after his refusal he gently stood aside and pointed out a few key pieces of information for other professions.

While physical training was forbidden, learning the deeper mysteries of magick wasn't. Cletienne was more than happy to restart those lessons. Even Loffrey lent his aid, upon occasion. He needed practical uses, but Ramza grasped the fundamentals.

Lord Folmarv did not appear once after his instructions. Whether he awaited news or was simply busy, Ramza hadn't a clue. Any attempts to speak with Alfredo or Loffrey about it were fruitless or confusing.

Delita began spending more time amongst the enlisted as well. With his recommendation, Ramza did as well and a fair time was had by all. One day he'd be leaning some amongst these men into battle, and learning their strengths, weaknesses and fears would do well service.

So along those lines, he spent some time in the infirmaries as well. Cletienne was a well teacher of white magicks, but his focus was more on offensive ways. The Ward Head Cwengyth was against his attempts, at first, but his continued perseverance wore him down.

Along with a promise not to drag her to watch two people nearly kill themselves in front of her.

Hopefully he could keep that promise.

Delita did not take to magicks well, but he offered his support as a focus for practicing new weaves. Within view of the nurse who aided him upon his initial reawakening, Casey, if anything went awry.

Nothing did, thankfully, and Ramza added time magicks and more white magicks to his repertoire. Summon magic was within his grasp now, as was the upper echelons of a mystic's teachings..

It was leaving him rather light on the physical aspects of combat, true, but much of his comrades would fill for that. Delita and Isilud could provide support at any range. Much of the enlisted Templars were melee combatants, though more white mages were amongst their number than usual Northern Order formations.

Still, he went over the basics of archery with Delita to expand his repertoire. Book learning was no match for actual experienced teachers. He picked up a few tidbits from Claudino as well, along the way.

In addition, he sought to brush up on his small unit tactics. Ser Beowulf had managed the bulk of the strategy for the raid against the _Endeavour_ , and Ramza liked not to fall behind. He even put in some effort to learn more about supplying. Delita had mainly handled that side of business, leaving Ramza to focus on the team's battle planning, but being malleable was a key edge in combat to exploit.

To say nothing if something untoward happened to Delita again.

He'd do everything in his power to safeguard his friends, of course. But reality's bitter lesson at Ziekden Fortress was a cold splash in his face any time he thought something impossible.

Delving deeper into such things also opened his eyes towards a matter by which he might yet best Wiegraf with words. The Corpse Brigade's commander could not turn his eyes from the truth forever, after all.

Over the days he'd become so engrossed in his self-taught lessons that the news to return to physical duty came as a complete shock. His body still bore some soreness from the encounter with Wiegraf, yet such an excuse would not pass Alfredo's watch.

Come a blistering hot morning on the dawn of Virgo, training began once again.

Not just against the instructors, this time around. It was a session for all Officers, save Lord Folmarv. What better way to prepare for exceptional foes than fighting some?

By the end of it Ramza was worse off than nearly dying against Wiegraf.

Delita grumbled much the same regarding his awakening in Mullonde while Isilud just nodded along.

Cwengyth would not be pleased with this…

While the senior Templars had maintained an even footing or close-fought wins, each match the newly minted officers had been one-sided, a lucky break, or a tired match with one another.

Ramza was the only one to best two of the elders, Barich, and amazingly enough Alfredo herself. The latter came as the last of her bouts against the first of his and was preceded by a great deal of luck in managing to chant a haste spell upon himself firstoff. With an extra boost of speed, he impeding her feet with a slow spell and went to a clash.

He still nearly lost.

But a victory was a victory as he moved on to Barich. The remnants of his haste spell allowing him to breach the dour Templar's guard and defeat his gun.

The rest of them took victory easily.

Isilud eked out a win fighting Claudino, though all agreed that mayhap the older Nightblade gave way to his apprentice.

Delita was the lone among all to inflict defeat upon Cletienne. The Sorcerer Templar's masteries led to many easy victories but a surprise use of a bowgun caught the spellcaster off-guard enough for Delita to push for a confirmed victory.

All in all, a valuable (if painful) lesson. Even if they'd all killed men before, there was never a limit on improving both physically and mentally.

Dinner served that day was with a great deal of laughter and comradery.

Sleep was pleasantly peaceful in spite of all the new bruises acquired.

* * *

His sleep was roused by rough, gloved hand and cold feel of steel.

Wiegraf Folles cautiously opened his eyes to discern who was here to take his head.

The darkness of the room offered little, even with his eyes adjusted to it. The precise features of his executioner were lost as such, but enough of the grays in the man's hair lent evidence to his assailant.

The sword removed its tip from his cheek before he could struggle for the weapon. Unfortunate, but he had stakes still hidden in the rubble of his mattress. His hand subtly searched for one—none. They were all gone.

"I've little time to spend on your attempts to break yourself free. Speak and let us be done with it," his gruff, uncompromising voice breached the darkness.

"I shall waste as much time as my slayer's time as possible if I do not take them first," replied Wiegraf.

"I've no desire to dissuade your notion that your life hangs upon my decisions. Aid us or die Wiegraf, I mislike wasting resources sustaining you if you continue this obstinate refusal."

Wiegraf sneered at the threat. He'd survived off less than what they'd given him.

"Do not think your secreted stash evades my notice either. Your stakes of wood and meat are both outside now."

He kept himself impassive at the answer even as he growled internally. Skipping every other meal to produce an excess stockpile to trick someone into thinking you'd starved and thirsted to death was a method to escape such a situation.

"I'll make my question plain: Work with us Wiegraf."

"I refuse."

"Your preference is death then."

"My preference would be taking that sword and running your Beoulve masters through."

"Hardly, you lackwit." The shadowed man grunted in disgust. "I thought you a useful man but all I see before me is the grandest fool."

"Grace me a sword and I shall show you a 'fool'."

"The Beoulve boy bested you barehanded after you nearly slew him. I would best your best on my deathbed." He grunted again. "He is your better martial and maturity."

"The fool believes his brothers innocent of any crime simply because of their name."

"No longer."

"I doubt that."

"And that is why you are a fool and a child. The only men your message reached are the ones you want dead most of all."

This circle of constantly talking at him about how he should feel, weaved with insults each time was growing more and more obnoxious. It would be worth death to stop their monotonous preaching.

"Even if you had succeeded, bloodied the streets with all noble blood, what then?" the man asked.

"Then Ivalice would be free."

"Free? Of its leaders? Corrupt or true, they were what kept the peace. What moved this nation's desires. The commons may make the kingdom but leaders are always needed. And your lot, were no leaders. What do you know of trade regulations, tax routes and dispute settlements?"

"Such things were for other people."

"Thus you shove responsibility for your actions unto another. Like a _child_."

"One you claim want on your side."

"You have your uses."

"I grow tired of being used."

"The join us and make decisions for yourself."

"Not so long as Beoulve and his man aid you."

"Do you intend to march into Ordallia next and slay every man who put yours to the sword?"

Wiegraf kept silent.

"I don't give a damn whom you hate. Only that you do it right. Killing him now does not serve the cause."

"You use him to."

"I put people where they're useful. If his usefulness runs its course while yours has not you've the full blessing to end him."

"I think you give much the same speech to him."

"Think what you will. The final ultimatum: Join us or die."

Even this was just being a pawn but… he would have a sword. "Then I join."

It took nearly a full minute before the man replied. "Very well."

The man reached into his dark tabard and pulled out a gleaming sky-blue stone. "For you."

Wiegraf took the stone shaped like a ram's horn into his hands. It glowed, even in the darkness, with some underlay of power he could not fathom. "What is it?"

"What the High Confessor desires you to hold. A Zodiac Stone."

The symbol for Aries was blazed within its depths. "Much to entrust to someone untrustworthy."

"You've the High Confessor's trust, not mine. Besmirch that stone and you would pray the Lucavi have you before my wroth. Speak naught to others that do not show theirs first."

"You've more?"

"The Zodiac Braves return." The man left with that cryptic and useless comment.

Wiegraf explored the stone. He was completely unaware of when he fell asleep.

 _Power._

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Meant to have this up earlier (what a surprise). Lousy procrastination.**

 **Spiritblade: Thank you for your Review and encouragement. The Church is gonna choke so bad.**

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 **Thank you new Follow. Thank you all for reading and have Happy Holidays.**


	34. Chapter 33: Virgo Burdens

**Chapter 33: Virgo Burdens**

Leo's fade into Virgo saw a number of changes to daily life as the year moved closer to half over. Wiegraf, for some manner or other, had finally put an end to his steadfast refusal. Whilst he did not offer pleasantries to others, he did not mindlessly attack either. Grabed in red officer's raiment, the former brigade knight only trained with the other enlisted. After much gripping about retraining. But a swift defeat delivered by Alfredo caused swifter change. Until he'd recovered from his injuries and hunger, whereupon the second bout was a far more even affair (if another win for Alfredo due to slowly weakening the new Templar's sword arm with Ark Knight prowess).

The onset of Saint Ajora's birth month lent rise to joviality and renewed religious sentiment. Finner banners were unfurled and displayed to the increased number of pilgrims visiting Mullonde. Artefacts of the most deep reverence were removed from the vaults and set on display. Saint Ajora's birth-shawl, the morose blade that put Balias to his end, the blood money paid to Germonique that bought his betrayal.

As morbid as a number of these treasures were, they were still indisputably icons of the Church's history.

The morning of the second day was met with a summons to the Main Cathedral, Central Briefing Room. Full kit.

Going in fully equipped for war was never a good sign. It meant immediate deployment after. Just like the graduation ceremony for Gariland.

He was not the only one called.

Outside, he met Delita, Alfredo and every single other officer stationed in Mullonde along with a number of Templars he could put names to, and plenty he couldn't. Even Wiegraf accompanied them.

Whatever was going on, was huge.

He, Delita and Isilud exchanged worries as they marched to the Main Cathedral. The seniors did much the same. Which just made their worries all the more grievous.

The already well-furnished interior of the Main Cathedral had doubled in its splendor. All the work done over the past few days had eradicated any faults one could find.

Save one.

Ramza briefly wondered how many mouths the gold could feed.

But entering the briefing room (Templars had no war room) focused his thoughts back on the present. Lord Folmarv stood at the end of the simple square room. An old man sat on a chair next to him, whilst a dozen empty chairs filled the rest of the room. Not near enough to seat all men summoned. Only enough for Officers.

He looked at Delita, but his friend gave his nod. With some grimace still, Ramza took a seat while the enlisted stood behind them.

"We've two matters of action to undertake during this meeting," announced Lord Folmarv. "I will cede the floor to His Excellency, The Most Revered Zalmour Lucianda, Celebrant of Mullonde and Head of the Holy Office of the Inquisition."

Lord Folmarv stood to the side as the other man rose. Celebrant Zalmour Lucianda. He'd not seen the man in person, only given notice of his existence by hushed whispers and organization charts of the Church's hierarchy. While the High Confessor was the supreme leader of the Church of Glabados, Cardinal Delacroix was the man to succeed him and in a hair's width behind was the Celebrant before him.

The Celebrant, with his balding white hair, wrinkled, severe and unpleasant expression and thick robes (green on front with white sleeves), cleared his throat before addressing the room. "Greetings, well-wishes and apologies Templars, for calling you forth during Saint Ajora's holy month," he said, his voice full of a fullness that went against his appearance. "But there is a distressing issue that must be cleared before it besmirches the good name of Our Lord."

The Inquisition was seeking Templarate help in its duties? That was a gross violation of the separation of Church powers!

All the other Templars knew that exactly, but only one was crass enough to point it out. "Don't you have your own lackies for that?" said Barich.

Odd as it was, Ramza agreed, giving a slight nod to the man.

"The heretic I pursue is so heinous and fiendishly resourceful he has infirm a great many of my Inquisitors. 'Tis why I have come to beseech the aid of the Templarate in dispensing God's justice upon the blasphemous cur!"

'Twould be impossible for one man, nay, even an organization to deprive the Inquisition of a degree of manpower to require assistance from another office. There was more at work here.

"Spare us your holy prattling, you would use our resources before your own," said Wiegraf with clear disgust.

"My men have fought, bled and died well facing this unbeliever," said Zalmour without breaking. "They are trained in combat, true, wrought victories before, but the heretic we face is no normal foeman. He is a trained knight, with a host of loyal, if heretical, allies at his side. My Inquisitors could not compare, as it pains me to say."

"So we're to clear the Inquisition's messes now?" Alfredo dryly commented.

"We are all allies under the Gods," said Lord Folmarv before any more disobedience would be tolerated.

"Aye, but we're Templars first and foremost, _ser_. Not the hunting dogs of another office."

Alfredo's dire view of the Inquisition set the whole room silent.

"You would prefer to let a heretic as dangerous as this run wild rather than work hand-in-hand with your fellow devotees?" the Celebrant tried to convince her.

But Alfredo was too stubborn to budge. She crossed her arms at his words and answered, "I would have men do their jobs first and foremost. I see naught the Inquisition has done to replenish Mullonde's splendor in preparation for Ajorafest."

Some slight murmur of approval gave her more weight.

"We have hunted heretics who would tear down all you've sought to built, is that not enough? Or should we rest on our laurels for months with aught to show but pretty banners on display?"

The taunts only drew a grim stare back from Alfredo.

"We have all done our parts, and were it any other heretic I would but continue on with mine own office's devotes. But the man we seek is cunning and dangerous and may strike during the celebration. None who consider themselves a servant of the Gods should stand for such threats."

A quick look around saw the spirits of the Enlisted less dour. But the Celebrant's words only soured every other officer.

"My words do not reach you, it seems. A pity." The Celebrant gave an exaggerated shake of his head. "Lord Tengille?"

The Grand Master took all attention as he stood back at the forefront. "Beoulve, Tengille, Emerald, Redford, O'Neal, Syndra, Lambert, Rose. You're to assist Celebrant Lucianada in his task."

A lightning storm of outrage bolted out from the mouths of other officers.

Ramza not among them, too numbed by the lack of a name.

"Enough," Lord Folmarv's single word stopped cold all the shouting. "Your complaints are noted but you _will_ do as ordered."

It calmed them, for now, but thunder still crackled in the eyes of the discontent.

It did not calm Ramza. Speaking up, he asked, "I request Delita to accompany me on this task as well."

"Denied," Lord Folmarv crushed his request so easily. "Heiral has his own orders, as do the rest of you."

"And those are?" Delita asked, out of turn.

Lord Folmarv gave a narrowing glare, but said nothing of the situation. "Those remainder I have not indicated are to march for Bervenia and offer security measures in preparation for Ajorafest."

Such a thing surely did not require nearly the full roster of the Officer corps. And if so, why was Isilud not to be among them? He would be overjoyed to see his sister again.

"That can't be it," said Alfredo, voicing much the same concern.

"It is. If any unforeseen attacks or difficulties arise in Bervenia 'tis your prerogative to end it."

Alfredo kept her look of distaste up, but slowly, she nodded. "Right, I see."

"Good. Are there any more outbursts that require handling or are you all able to do your jobs without further bickering?"

Any such questions to "why" would be ignored, that much was clear, and unpleasant. But "where" and "whom" were still vital to know. "Where shall we be pursuing this heretic, and who is he?

The Celebrant took center again to answer. "The heretic has secreted himself away in the streets of the Royal City of Lesalia."

"You want me to walk into one of the strongholds of the White Lion!?"

"Obviously," Lord Folmarv glared in annoyance at being forced to repeat himself. "Wear a helmet."

Ramza couldn't help a grunt of disgust at the situation. His lord brothers knew the surname Lugria. If by chance any of their men reported in… In Gariland 'twas unlikely for them to give such specifics and for said report to reach their ears. But in Lesalia? Zalbaag or Dycedarg would like be there.

Except… with Ajorafest arriving, Lord Brother Zalbaag would be making pilgrimage. He'd be anywhere but Lesalia. That left Dycedarg still, and the possibility that Zalbaag would remain on station.

Ramza regained his composure and answered with a "yes sir".

"Now," the Celebrant said, "as for our query…" The bold and self-assurance of such a highly prestigious paused awkwardly.

It made everyone else nervous.

"Former Captain of the Gryphon Knights of Lionel: Ser Beowulf Cadmus."

The storm calmed before returned as a hurricane.

"Impossible!"

"That's a lie."

"Don't trust the Inquisition."

And every variant of those three with curses (including a number Ramza said himself).

Lord Folmarv and the Celebrant stood in silence while the winds battered and slowed themselves down.

When silence pocketed itself between outbursts, Lord Folmarv said, "Silence." His order again stopped them all cold. "You are Templars, not children sitting in school and I expect you to act as such. A month's pay from the lot of you for unprofessional conduct."

Not that Ramza was spending gil, but it still stung.

"Aye, make it two for me then because I have to say this," Alfredo grumbled, "Ser Beowulf is as fine a knight as I've ever met. He is no heretic."

"I could not possibly believe he is a heretic either," Claudino added in.

Barich gave a low grumble of a laugh. "The pompous fool finally reveals his true colors. Those slaves bound for Fovoham were probably put there by him."

"That's ridiculous," said Isilud. "He risked his life as well as any of us."

"Best way to clear suspicions is act against your interests. Play the noble slave-freeing knight and no one thinks you're a heretic. Tell me, why did only Junior Officers get sent instead of a fuller force? Myself excluded, of course."

"I knew Deitrich," said Ramza.

"And? Reason enough for you to go, but not for Cletienne to remain behind. Surely such mastery of magicks would have been perfect boon to safeguarding the slaves."

"I cannot handhold them forever," Cletienne cheerfully answered.

'Twas odd, Cletienne's help would have been invaluable. "I've led men before, 'twould be no hands held."

"Led men to slaughter others," said a disgusted Wiegraf.

"Much the same back to you, Wiegraf," said Delita with a scowl.

"Ahem," Loffery interrupted before any more foul words were said. "If we may ask, Celebrant, how were the charges against Ser Beowulf raised?"

A look Ramza could only describe as "at least one of you has their senses" graced the Celebrant's face before he replied. "Despite your reservations, the Office of the Inquisition takes such reports with the gravest of care and highest of concern. Who leveled these accusations shall remain anonymous, but were it from any source impugning such an otherwise spotless record of service would have been dismissed out-of-hand."

So whoever did bring these false charges held a significant amount of clout. And here he thought the Church beyond political scheming.

"When my inquisitors and I sought Ser Cadmus to determine the veracity of these heresies, we saw them laid bare before us. Turning from the Gods' words to pursue the monstrous acts of an ancient dragon cult."

"Pardon?" Ramza blurted out.

"A following of a decadent art that wrought dark magicks upon one's flesh. For ages, they've kidnapped young maidens and twisted their forms into draconic visages in their black rituals.

Magicks that would shift one's form were not out of the ordinary (at least, as much as their existence went). The Toad spell did much the same. But to turn someone into a dragon instead? Without some manner of befuddlement the morphed woman would turn her new jaws on her abuser.

"Ser Beowulf was not a caliber of magician to cast such potent magicks from my time with him," said Ramza.

"Aye," Alfredo added on, "he's swordsmen first and foremost."

"Throwing around spells from his sword." Barich continued to make things difficult.

Alfredo sent a glare his way. "The only one here who can't is you."

Ramza couldn't either but he'd keep quiet about that.

"Regardless," Cletienne spoke up, "my assessment is with Alfredo. I would presume by the severity by which this 'cult' is hunted that there is no known cure for this ailment, lest it be treated much the same as a common magick effect. Ser Beowulf I've met but twice but he had neither the magickal capacity nor aptitude for such high magicks."

"The possibility, however faint, exists that he learned betwixt your last meeting and the day I met him," said the Celebrant. "Nevertheless, whence I confronted him, offered a chance to prove his innocence and dismiss the charges against him he chose to run."

"Who doesn't want to run from the Inquisition?" Alfredo snidely said.

"By fleeing when offered chance for succor he solidifies his guilt. His knights, loyal to a fault, flocked to him on our pursuit. Our combat saw much of my Inquisitors to a healer's side whilst he and a loyal band fled north."

So much of this made little sense. He knew knights could be more loyal to a squad commander over a Order commander, but wouldn't Cardinal Delacroix have to be involved with such an operation? How had he been tracked to Lesalia?

"So, you're condemning him because he ran," stated Alfredo.

"Ser Cadmus had every advantage to prove his innocence but did not take it."

"Figures," Alfredo muttered. "What about the dragon-maiden?"

"She is irrelevant."

Alfredo grumbled something too low to hear.

"Ser Beowulf is a fine knight," said Ramza. "'Twould take more than just Isilud and myself to detain him. To say naught of any knights accompanying him." Ser Aliste like included.

"You shall be accompanying myself, of course, as well as a squad of veteran Inquisitors under my command."

More Inquisitors? He'd have nightmares if they were half as difficult as their Celebrant.

"And Beoulve, I need not remind you, his guilt is confirmed."

His guilt was the furthest thing from confirmed. Mayhap he was too adamant of innocence because of it. Ser Beowulf seemed an honest knight, but Lord Brother Dycedarg seemed an honest knight as well.

"We ride to end a heretic, not drag him back in chains."

The room took a deep silence that brooked no further questions.

Seeing this, Lord Folmarv said, "Then you have your orders. The _Spear of Light_ shall take you all to Gariland whence aboard."

Least there would be some time with Delita prior.

"Beoulve, Isilud, I would speak with you prior to your sortie." Ramza and Isilud both looked at him in surprise. "In private." The two words ushered every other person outside the room, including the Celebrant, who was none too pleased.

The three of them last, Lord Folmarv continued, "You will bring Ser Cadmus back alive."

Stunned was too underscore a word to describe what he felt but it was all he could muster.

"You'd have us undermine to Inquisition?" asked Isilud.

"Zalmour is too old and dogged in his ways. Retreating is not evidence of guilt. Drag Cadmus back, in chains or without limbs but make him talk here."

What a morbid method. "When the Celebrant refuses?"

"You've Templars to command. Use them." Lord Folmarv looked at his son. "Now I've words for Isilud, without you Beoulve. Go."

"Yes, sir." Ramza left without another look, but a mind burning with curiosity and confusion.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I've no excuses to offer this time. I was but lazy for night-two weeks with but a rushed end to show for it.**

 **Asahar4: Thank you for a Review. I hope you had a good holiday and new year.**

 **Thank you all for reading and have a (belated) happy new year.**


	35. Chapter 34: Four Ways Forward

**Chapter 34: Four Ways Forward**

Lord Folmarv did not spend time watching the _Spear of Light_ , they had their duties to fulfill and he had his. Cid's spies would be perilously busy making sense of this action, exposing flaws for him to exploit and pinpoint.

Bloodshed could wait, however, for Libra to come. Sending men to Saint Ajora's side during his birth month was too crass to consider. Unfortunate that the other Templars would soon be doing so.

* * *

Travel to Gariland was miserable, as too many of Ramza's thoughts were clouded with the wretched nature of the situation. Talk with Delita curbed pessimism somewhat, but it returned upon instruction that the two groups were to be divided as early as Dorter. The Inquisition-led team would pursue the normal path towards the Royal City, but the Bervenia-bound team would move east and northwards along the Lesalia-Zeltennia border.

It was not the only surprise, as the Bervenia team was to escort a number of camp followers and pilgrims to the city of Saint Ajora's birth. (Casey was among them.)

Isilud, meanwhile, was acting rather odd. Distant, avoided conversation. Whatever words—orders even, his lord father gave him unnerved the young man greatly.

Light chatter was the constant companion on the march to Dorter. (Along with ever-helmeted heads of Ramza and Wiegraf.) While there was nothing so pronounced as before their departure, it was enjoyable all the same.

The Trade City saw their separation, a great deal of well wishes and good lucks among them before Ramza's set off north.

The road through Zeklaus Desert was a hot affair, as it always was. Ramza ruminated on his encounter with Wiegraf and rescuing the Marquis. The world was so simple just a few months ago. Now, now it was difficult. It was child's fancy too long for those times, even in light of what truths were revealed.

That blistering heat surrendered to blistering cold when the entourage entered the Felmarian Highlands. Beset by year-round snows on the edge of a desert, the area was one of the greatest terrain mysteries in Ivalice.

As well as a prime location for ore. The Mining Town of Gollund sat in the highlands one of the most productive mines in Ivalice. Famed for its large coal mine it nonetheless held smaller mines for iron, gold, mythril and assorted gems.

Mayhap they'd find holy auracite in the latter!

An amusing notion but unlikely. No such Holy Stones were displayed in Mullonde. Wherever the Zodiac Stones lay was beyond the Church's reach.

The church they took shelter in was magnificently warm and brought welcome respite into everyone's souls.

Isilud emerged from whatever recession held his sense and began speaking once again. Whatever bothered him, he did not answer, instead asking Ramza questions.

About his family.

It did make some sense to ask as such when the possibility existed they would encounter one of his Lord Brothers, no matter how minute.

So, he did talk.

Of Lord Brother Zalbaag, the brave and strong Knight Devout. Sworn servant of the Church and the "Savior of Ivalice". Everything always talked about in stories of the perfect knight. Swift, bold and fearless, yet kind and warm. For as furious as he was on the battlefield (or so Ramza was told) he always kept a loving grin on his face whenever they talked, or sparred.

All dashed in snow.

Lord Brother Dycedarg was never the physical type. The considerable skill with a sword he commanded he never showed, preferring wordplay and thinking to an arm's strengths. The "ice" to Zalbaag's "fire" as it were. Yet, he showed care in his own way.

Ramza recounted a short tale some many years ago. A dinner with some noble whose name Ramza long since forgot. A small slip of grace and manners brought a severe lashing from the noble.

So then did Dycedarg defend his half-brother's honor and gave the man such a verbal thrashing that Ramza would swear the noble'd prefer to be in a bout with Zalbaag instead.

The man had never held a weapon in his life.

But the same lips that saved Ramza that night condemned Tietra another. Like condemned him by now as well.

With some hope, Alma avoided any such consequences of his actions. He said as much to Isilud, praising her as a kind and considerate girl herself while willful and strong of spirit.

Isilud smiled at that. Some memory of Meliadoul no doubt flickering in his mind as he did.

He shared a few more anecdotes, Isilud did much the same. Retelling a time Meliadoul shielded him from a punishment, or tips she gave him on holding a sword.

This caught the attention of the enlisted Templars, who broke from whatever it was they were discussing to eavesdrop, comment and eventually come to dominate the conversation themselves.

It was all well and good to learn a few bits of information about the people putting their lives under his command. Alinore Emerald, who boasted about the well-done steak she ate on account of her family's local emerald mine. Roger Redford made talk of his intents to get into a fistfight with Ser Beowulf, of all things. Oswyn O'Neal talked much the opposite, preferring to sit on top of some roof and just take him down with arrows.

This brought the two to harsher language bordering on shouts of anger soon enough. But the moment before Ramza would stop them, another of the enlisted did. Cynthia Syndra harshly, but fairly rebuked the two of them for letting personal preferences besmirch the sanctity of the Church. Supported by Eustace Lambert and stern looks from both officers, the two sheepishly stopped their disagreement.

Cynthia, to her credit, was modestly proud of the achievement but kept herself in check. She just compared it to the many lessons of getting her four younger sisters to get along.

Lambert (as he prefered to be called), was more prideful of it. Enough that he got a small comment about not overreaching for such things. Which was the man's attempts during their journey in simple. Always attempting to help, but clumsy. He had a good heart but just had difficulty putting it into practice. The effort was appreciated however.

Catherine Rose had kept quiet during the exchange, she looked to understand the consequences but Ramza presumed her mind was elsewhere. She kept meticulous tabs on the chemist supplies on their trip over and was like counting the coins going into this venture.

The Inquisitors did not see fit to associate with the Templars, which was much fine for them. For a few more hours stories and joys were exchanged well. Night's coming brought it low, and the tiredness of time marched on and all the Church expedition soon took to slumber.

Nothing out-of-the-ordinary awoke on this morning and the Church knights were on chocobos after a hearty breakfast. With the well-wishes of the local branch behind them they set back out in the cold.

Nothing more waylaid their passage to the Royal City. The snows melted away to green plains and clear roads. Travels by foot and carriage accompanied the roads and the sound of the Royal City reached them before its sights. Traders and pilgrims and visitors to the Royal City moved in response to Ajorafest and a small tent city had popped up around the capital's walls. Any other month and such a thing would be scattered by the Lesalian Guard but for this month alone it was tolerated.

Their passage towards the city was waylaid multiple times by people seeking blessings. While the Celebrant was accommodating at first, his patience drew thin and soon became refusals that scattered the crowds.

Entrance into the city itself was a simple affair. None would stop a Church procession this month.

The Royal City of Lesalia beckoned.

* * *

Araguay woods were a soupy mess. The Fusse Plains were a hot and shadeless waste.

Every day made Delita more miserable as he sat separate, ate separate and slept separate from every other Templar.

Wiegraf did much the same.

Attempts by enlisted did not budge either man. The Officer's attempts amounted to nothing.

He was content to keep away from everyone.

Save Casey, but even that was more on her end than his.

Whatever reason they had for separating him from Ramza was sure to come in Bervenia. So Delita bided his time imagining all the scenarios to be brought before him.

Few were good.

Especially in light of his current secluding.

He couldn't afford to be a sullen child forever.

Another day on the road and he engaged in light conversation. He couldn't remember what he talked of when day's end neared but he'd made enough of a recovery that he was no longer given annoyed glares.

Wiegraf didn't.

Delita smiled at that.

The further north they went the more people they encountered. While the Fusse Plains were not a primary travel route, many travelers still took its roads towards Bervenia. The Templar detachment was soon swarmed on all sides by the religious devotees, like fish swimming in the sea.

Their pace slowed as Loffrey afforded comforts and blessings. He was still an ordained priest, as well as a goodly number of other Templars.

It continued well into the city's outskirts where if anything the situation was even more crowded. Bervenia had simply became the largest city in Ivalice in view of all the people living within its reaches.

Though they caught sight of the city at midday it was night when they finally arrived within. Even then, Loffrey set a number of Templars behind to attend to those seeking worship.

The Free City of Bervenia. Whatever awaited them within?

* * *

Proper ladies averted their eyes. Northern Knights did not meet his. Squires and servants stood aside. No one barred his path.

He admitted there was a great deal of ease in the manner he was treated; never having to wait upon the slovenly paces of another, no patience to be set aside for a day's dullards bothering him by some petty thing or another.

Upon a time 'twas his own reputation that would have done so.

Now was because of another's.

He entered the study of his employer, the illustrious Lord Dycedarg Beoulve. The head of House Beoulve remained seated, sipping on some well-off brady or another without raising so much as a hair that he was aware of who intruded.

"As I do not see the little bastard dragged behind and you are too old to be too dim to come to me without important word; I ask: what news have you?"

Ser Goffard Gaffgarion greeted his lord with an amused chuckle. "Message mayhap better than some banished bastard Beoulve."

The idea pinged Lord Dycedarg's curiosity enough to set aside his drinking glass. "What of it then?"

"Only the one man you'd want dragged in chains more than your half-brother."

"Wiegraf Folles." The Beoulve Lord gave a calculated slow blink. "Yet you lack his head in hand or body behind."

"Whom I saw him with was more concern."

Words enough to give the other man pause. "Whom?"

"I know not."

Dycedarg loosed an annoyed grunt.

"These old eyes do little to tell a man's features from many paces. But he wore armor of gold with a tabard of blue-green over it. The two exchanged much in harsh talk, much in shy and most in shouts. They boarded ship bound south."

"Mullonde." A sigh broke through the Beoulve countenance. "This requires some nights of rumination."

"Shall we make our strike early then?"

"No," dismissed Dycedarg. "There are still preparations to make and doing so would tip our hands. I've no doubt Mullonde has its ears listening still." A quick movement of his eyes accompanied his words.

He nodded. "Of course. What of your bastard-brother and our little songbird?"

"The latter shall remain if you ever find the former."

As planned then. "Very good sir. If there's anything else?" Dycedarg gave a shake of no. "Good health, Your Lordship."

Gaffgarion departed without another word.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Alright, I forgot to mention this last Chapter but this is going to be the last "arcs" for the Act One stand in. Once these are done, we'll be catching back up to the Prologue and the start of Act 2.**

 **reyria: Thank you for your Review; I am wholly gladdened to read your thoughts even in "bad English". I am using the PSP version of names, yes. The Final Fantasy wiki defaults to them on the tabs. The translation as a whole is much clearer. I shall be using the PS1 names for a few things later on. I would put my current estimate as around six or seven Chapters before Agrias and Ovelia return.**

 **Thank you all for reading and have an illuminated day.**


	36. Chapter 35: Betrayed

**Chapter 35: Betrayed**

Riding into the city brought back all the faint memories Ramza held of his previous visit. When Lord Father still lived. The whole family walked the streets. The knights, the guards, the commons. Every man, woman and child they passed knew who they were. Barbaneth Beoulve and his children! Bastards though half of them were none would challenge the Knight Gallant to his face.

Nothing so complex burdened his mind at the time. The people were nice because they were. The city was big and bright and new compared to Eagrose. Always some new trinket to stare at or sweet to convince Lord Father to buy. A fancy scarf or a gilded play sword. 'Twas a wondrous time for all.

The streets were packed enough that the procession forced uncomfortable mergings and clustering as they passed. All the joy Ramza remembered was replaced with bitterness and angry stares.

All the religious were trapped outside the city, it seemed.

The Celebrant led them to a Church nearby. He exchanged words with one of the priests—that grew more heated until an intense stare cowed the local man down. Something to be admired in any man who stood ground against the Inquisition for any length of time.

The clergy cleared the congregation out from the Church. Stabling their mounts, the Church forces entered.

"This shall be our house whilst he investigate the heretic's whereabouts," the Celebrant said as they settled in.

It was a modest dwelling and the previous occupants made themselves scarce.

"I will be meeting with Lord Commander Zalbaag Beoulve to bring this to his attention."

Ramza bristled at his lord brother's name.

"You two shall accompany me." He made indications to both officers.

"No," Ramza steadfastly refused. "'Tis too dangerous."

"Do you intend to speak to him?" The Celebrant gave a look that said any words said back would be a poor thing to do. "You are here to stand, be silent, and give enough credence that this heretic is a threat that it requires the Inquisition and Templarate to work together."

"So I speak if need be?" asked Isilud.

The Celebrant gave a small nod of his head at the question. "Come, we've little time to waste."

They could do with some rest, but there was no arguing with the man. Especially not now. 'Twas rather impressive that despite all the years he had on the young officers the old Celebrant seemed as spry as any recent akademy graduate.

On foot they truly made better time traveling Lesalia's streets. Little time was taken to chart their path through the waves of people and make entrance to the noble district. The higher class of guard stationed at the dividing gates also powerless to impede the progress of the Church.

Whence they followed streets up to the gates of the Royal Palace itself. From its position at the heart of the city, the great keep towered over every other building in the royal capital. Two dozen men and women safeguarded its unassailable gate. All the men clad in Northern Sky colors, whilst the woman bore the signet of the most honorable duty in Ivalice: the Lionsguard. The personal guard of the Royal Family itself.

But even the mighty Lionsguard could not impede the head of the Inquisition. Though the knights on duty resented it immensely they submitted, letting the Templars inside the grounds.

To the sides of the palace were a number of buildings for other services. Where Royal Attendants, Lionsguard and, for their purposes, Lord Brother Zalbaag held his command.

The halls they entered were passing familiar to Ramza. Upon a time the office they were being led to was occupied by Lord Father.

Even one of a pair of knights outside was familiar. Though the man was a great deal more gray than when last Ramza recalled, the Northern Sky knight served under his Lord Father for the war.

For the brief moments just outside that door Ramza's mind filled with every dire thought. A host of knights awaited the other side ready to drag him before the gallows. His lord brothers waited beyond, blade to Alma's neck to force him cooperate. Isilud and the Celebrant turned on him. Every manner of horror.

But they went in without incident. The usual exchange of titles broke the air and nothing out of the ordinary occurred. (If one ignored the peculiarities of the situation as a whole.)

Lord Brother Zalbaag sat at the head of the table. Three small chairs at the facing him. He bade the men sit.

The Celebrant had them stand whilst he took the seat opposite.

Ramza stared at his Lord Brother, the helmet's face shielding him from any scrutiny.

Zalbaag set his eyes on both men—Ramza quickly averted. He could not have noticed. Could not be piecing together the truths of who lay behind the helmet. Not even he was that skilled. Ramza had grown a tad since they last met. His posture stood straighter, his armor much thicker than his cadet's uniform.

But the surcoat he wore was damn-near the same shade of blue!

He'd bite his lip if it would not be noticed.

Yet if Zalbaag did make note of the color, he did not show it. 'Twas not wholly uncommon a color.

Zalbaag exchanged some light pleasantries with the Celebrant. All these months and his Lord Brother was the same. Did Tietra's life mean nothing to him?

"Now, if you'll excuse me for asking, Your Excellency, what business brings the Head of the Inquisition to Lesalia accompanied by two Templars?" Zalbaag's voice betrayed a hint of an edge Ramza had grown accustomed to hearing when annoyance gripped his Lord Brother's mind. Even if he was Devout, he still held his standards.

A damn pity they didn't apply to commons girl.

"Lord Zalbaag," the Celebrant addressed him his tired voice as even as he could make. "The business of the Inquisition is what it always has been. We have come to Lesalia to accomplish our duty. A heretic most foul hides within the Capital's walls and we have come to bring it to justice."

A slight, otherwise unnoticeable flaring of Zalbaag's nostrils preceded his answer. "Grim news, Your Excellency. To come during preparations for Ajorafest is the worst possible time."

"Any time is terrible if heresy is afoot."

"Of course, Your Excellency." Zalbaag leaned back in his chair. "I humbly request your discretion in pursuit of your foeman."

"Lord Zalbaag," the Celebrant's voice took a harsher tone, "this meeting was to inform you of our presence. Were it but any other man that held command they would not get the privilege."

The intent soured Zalbaag's face in a heartbeat. "Your Excellency, both the Inquisition and Templarate searching for this heretic would alert him to your search with great haste. I caution you to

"Lord Zalbaag, your concerns are noted. But the heretic we pursue is dangerous enough to form union between our two holy offices. He shall not be gifted enough leeway to escape our sight again."

Ramza could imagine the teeth grinding Zalbaag would do out-of-sight.

"I will… inform my knights as such, Your Excellency."

"Very good, Lord Zalbaag. There shall be nothing else, but if such comes, you shall be informed." The Celebrant gave a curt nod of his head before rising. "Go with the Grace of the Gods."

Their attempt to leave was interrupted by the old knight intruding. "Lord Commander," the knight addressed, "you've another visitor."

"Very well, my current guests were departing. Send them in."

"'Tis Lady Alma, m'lord."

Alma! Ramza's head snapped to the man without thinking.

Thankfully, Isilud followed suit to cover any suspicions.

If Zalbaag noticed he did not show it. He let out a frustrated sigh before answering. "Naught to do then. Allow her in."

The knight gave a nod before departing, returning shortly with Alma in tow.

Almost exact as he remembered her. Her soft, rounded features perked in surprise at her guests. Her rich blonde hair tied back in a pink bow. She gave a curtsy in her red-pink skirt to the departing clergy.

He wanted to rip off his helm and tell her everything. Drag her from Zalbaag's clutches to Mullonde. Keep her safe!

But he did nothing but turn and walk away.

* * *

The walk back was nothing but a miasma of regret and anxiety for Ramza. Isilud's attempts to cheer him failed utterly.

She was here to prepare for Ajorafest, of that he was certain. Alma was a cleric-in-training for the Church. She was like engaged in some service.

"I must say, the Lady Alma is quite a pretty girl."

Ramza blinked a view times to clear his vision. Recounted every word he just heard spoken. He'd been distracted and unclear. Truly Isilud wouldn't say such a thing. "Pardon?"

"Caught your attention now, have I?" Ramza could just imagine him grinning beneath his helmet.

The Celebrant was a good number of paces ahead, too far to overhear. "I mislike your implication, ser."

"Oh? Better she be bargained off to some dandy twice her age then?"

"Of course not."

"Come now, my friend," Isilud walked closer. "'Twas but a jest."

"Surely that makes it better."

Isilud gave an exaggerated sigh. "Would you like me to say she's a swarthy hag then?"

The glare Ramza gave him was somewhat muffled beneath the helmet but the other Templar got the intent well enough. "'Twould be so bad? Truly? Or do you trust her elder brothers more?"

"That is not it." Ramza accompanied it with a shake of his head. "How would you feel if I courted your sister?"

"Praise you for your fine eye before I blackened it of course!" Isilud heartily laughed.

Ramza found himself joining in for a bit.

"But levity aside," Isilud continued, "what shall you do for her?"

"I know not." Akademy and monasteries had kept them apart for so long. After fleeing as he did, was there any right to take her away?

"What say I do feign an interest in having her hand. Would her Devout Lord Brother reject a betrothal to the son of the Knights Templar?"

Alma and he were always bound to be wed to solidify blood ties and family fortunes. While the idea of finding someone to love was always a fancy, 'twas one he nevertheless harbored deep inside.

Mayhap the Templarate was a path to that, free of Beoulve shackles as he were.

But not free enough.

"Give me time to think."

Isilud nodded, and they continued on.

* * *

With their return to the Church, the Celebrant laid out his plans. Ramza would remain within the holy walls to act as a coordination whilst the Inquisitors and Templars searched the city.

That was well enough for him.

The Celebrant went further into the details of how they caught Ser Beowulf's trail and the indication of his goal. A tome of secrets cradled somewhere in the Royal Capital.

Any questions of "why" were shunted aside by the Inquisitor as irrelevant. Any attempt to point out knowing the tome would be helpful in located the heretic were branded useless.

When he was alone Ramza sighed in frustration at the obstructive Celebrant.

But he had his duty to fulfill.

* * *

 _A week_ , thought Ramza, _it took a whole week to finally track him down_.

When the Celebrant arrived on the morning Ramza was utterly flabbergasted when he revealed he'd finally found him.

Anti-Crown rebels had stolen away the tome the prior night,as the Inquisitor planned. His men trailed the arrogant fools (as he put it) back to their stronghold in the slums whereupon they confirmed the target.

With no honest men to consort with, the heretic had thrown his lot in with criminals to pursue his "deranged" intentions.

A quick round of discussion broke out about how best to approach and for once the Celebrant listened to the suggestions of others.

The Templars ran some quick recon, estimated the enemy forces and came up with a working plan.

Ser Beowulf was an accomplished swordsmen and tactician so they needed to strike with speed, surprise and remove him first.

There were no sentries, such would be cautious but draw attention. A heretic needed to be out of sight to survive.

The Celebrant layered his holy magicks upon them. Spells of protect, shell, regen, haste and even the mighty arise would bring the encounter further to their ends.

Everyone took to their positions. Isilud and O'Neal perched above a roof to catch any in retreat. Redford, Emerald, and Lambert took a frontal position with most of the Inquisitors (whose names Ramza never learned). Ramza was with them, whilst the remainder brought the rear with the Celebrant.

The door to the hovel was locked, but Redford's particular set of skills bypassed that blockaged. As silently as they could, they entered…

* * *

"Finally!" Beowulf slammed the book down, tearing apart some of its ancient parchment from sheer force. Minutes ago 'twould be foolish but he had what he needed now!

"Found your mark, I take it?" the man in charge of the ruffians Beowulf had aligned himself with spoke up.

"Two parts of my goal are met, yet the remainder elude me at present."

"Well and good for you then," the man mocked.

"My thanks for sheltering my men and I, but we must depart."

"A pleasure. You ever feel like helping more with taking down Luveria's corrupt regime we'll welcome you right back."

He had other corruption on his mind. "We'll see." Beowulf smirked and offered his hand—

"Enemy attack!"

Another man came running down the stairs panicked—silenced as an Inquisitor descended upon him.

"Dammit your stupid—"

His lips continued to move but no words came. Beowulf's attempts to respond were the same. A spell of silence!

He'd naght but sword skills to rely upon then!

Criminals and heretic knights rallied against the invading Inquisition—and Templars!

A familiar blue officer's tabard descended amongst the others. So these were Bremondt's executioners!

And Celebrant Zalmour to cover the rear. Might the Grand Master be lurking 'round corner as well?

Such thoughts were all amusement left as Beowulf joined in the carnage. His knights and the gang ruffians clashed quickly with the Church forces in the run-down basement.

Their opponents, who thought themselves so much the better broke back with surprise on their faces as the easy foemen they came to best did not falter. The gang leader had drilled these men into acceptable enough knights and stalked the streets of Lesalia under Lord Commander Zalbaag's eye. 'Twas not one to trifle with if he put his mind to it.

But they were still hastily trained with only a few months experience. Whence the Inquisitors and Templars regained composure they fought with an even greater ferocity. Any strikes Beowulf's men made did not leave lasting blood. Magickal effects for certain.

Beowulf joined in the fray just as the gang members were getting cut down. With his and the leader's aid the front stabilized for a second. Beowulf's sword lashed out and cut into the arm of a lightly-armored Inquisitor. But not nearly as deep as he hoped. 'Twas true. Could he speak he'd demand a retreat.

Some of the ruffians began to fall back out the other stairs, otherwise unused to be saved for this purpose.

Beowulf motioned for a fighting retreat and those who still could followed. A third his knights could not and half the gang.

Screams broke from behind, one of those fleeing falling back with an arrow lodged in his knee.

Dammit, they'd set a watch. Of course they would! Fool he was not to think it sooner!

Beowulf put a renewed effort into fighting. His sword slipping past his Templar foeman's guard, stabbing into a gap in armor. The Templar fell back bleeding.

The Officer stepped forward to meet his steel.

The Lugria boy was fast and accurate with his strikes. Whilst every move Beowulf attempted was countered or evaded. He was reliant enough against the slavers yet he'd improved this much!

Beowulf attempted a feint around the boy's guard, but he saw right through it and pinned his sword aside with his shield. He kicked the shield away, but it left him vulnerable to a stab from Lugria. Beowulf stepped to the side, but it still grazed him.

He slammed his arm tight around the overextended arm and trapped the Templar. His own sword swung around, but could only clatter against the boy's greaves after a block from his shield.

Lugria struggled to pull back, blocking slash after slash with his shield. Beowulf struck, and switch, sending a kick and knocking Lugria off-balance—open! Beowulf swung his sword at the helmeted head!

Lugria fell back intentionally, dragging Beowulf down on top of him.

Reckless, but it gave him enough leverage to push the former Gryphon off, roll away and recover on his feet.

It but reset their duel.

It did not do the same for the rest.

Beowulf's allies were being cut down, only three Church hunters down in response.

The gang leader rushed past Lugria. His sword raised to strike down the Celebrant nearby!

Lugria turned, thrust upwards, impaled the man straight through his heart.

"Damn!" the leader somehow eked out as he went limp.

Lugria petrified.

Seeing his chance Beowulf moved to strike but the swords of two others blocked his way. One that would be an allied knight. His eyes were foggy gray, and his movements sluggish. More magical confusion.

"Snap out of it!" Beowulf yelled.

'Twas not enough.

Last man standing as he was encircled…

* * *

No! No, no, no, no, no!

Ramza pulled free his blade.

'Twas the sound most deafened and changed and sheer coincidence! 'Twas not a voice he recognized!

He held the bleeding, dead body of the man he just slew. Pulled helmet free.

"Fulke!"

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Well that checks one generic off the list.**

 **Thank you all for reading and have a lovely day.**


	37. Chapter 36: Resolves

**Chapter 36: Resolves**

The interior of the Free City of Bervenia was busy with the faithful. Pilgrims kept in orderly lines by Templarate.

Being of the latter, Delita and the rest were afforded a clear path through the crowds and to the Templars Central Command building in the city. A repurposed garrison building taken after the Church assumed direct control of the city; it was among many religious holdings surrounding the great square where Saint Ajora declared a well plagued.

Said well was guarded by a multitude of Templars and other clergy. Save one approach that formed a line that may well reach outside the city.

Their chocobos were taken by young squires and led to nearby stables whilst the dismounted Templars moved inside (graced with bows from those stationed).

The entrance hall was far warmer than Delita had expected. Well-furnished with a number of religious icons he'd not the mind to recall. Other Templars stood to greet them. Meliadoul and an unfamiliar officer among them.

"Loffrey is has been some time!" the other Officer cheerfully said with his rather high voice. "Come, come, let us get you all settled in from the day's dealings. I'm sure you're all quite famished and tired." The officer gave a wave to his men.

"Thank you for your offer, I'm sure the men appreciate it," said Loffrey, soon aided by warm returns of "yes".

Delita among him. So much riding left his hindquarters sore and arms aching.

"Good, good," the officer gave a warm smile. "I've already made arrangements, my men will see you to your rooms. I'll have our chefs work their skills for a nice feast. Let us say, an hour's half of rest before dinner, aye?"

"So be it."

The arriving Templars were segmented off with guides to lead him. Delita ended up as head of his own little group as he waited for their guide.

It was Meliadoul.

On their way to quarters, she struck up a conversation with him. "How do you fare, Delita?"

"Well, and you?"

"Fair. My brother?"

"Good, last I saw him. Even as he works his fingers raw repaying debts he made."

She smiled. "I would say 'twas quite a welcome surprise."

"So was his when he came asking for the gil."

"Where does he impart then? Ramza, Lord Father as well?" A hint of worry crept into her voice.

They knew of their impending arrival but not where the rest of the Templars were sent? Curious. "Your Lord Father remains in Mullonde, safely. Ramza and Isilud go to Lesalia to lend aid to the Inquisition."

"The Inquisition?" Meliadoul awkwardly stumbled at the name. "To say nothing of… What manner of… troubles require such a union?"

She was as doubtful as all in the room.

"Heretics most severe. And any more said would damage reputations."

"What matter is reputation in such situation?"

Only a noble could say that.

"Than consider it precaution. I know not how far a heretic's grip may be." Impossibly far to reach here, but mayhap enough to convince her.

She considered it a moment, and stopped. "Your quarters."

She left without another word.

With no further interruptions the small group entered the room. A number of areas were sectioned off to provide as much comfort and privacy for the occupants as allowed.

The group worked some basic rest, relaxation and hygiene before being called forth for the feast.

The mess hall was large enough to feed ten times as many men as invited. A nice choice of cut meats and tempting fruits served.

The officer in charge introduced himself as Linnett Able. Pleasant words were directed at them as well as setting the men at liberty for the remainder day. Tomorrow would be the time to discuss and begin settling into the new patrols and duties. But for now it was their time.

Delita did not indulge in it. Preferring a simple night's sleep rather to some manner of leisure. There was some other ploy here, he was certain of it, and he would face it as rested as he could.

* * *

"Lost consciousness; awash in a sea of silent slumber… Repose."

The magical slumber layered upon the natural in a room beyond sight.

Barich moved forward to pick the lock right after. A few blinks of time were all it took.

Silent as they could five Templar officers plied into the dark room. Their target in the deepest sleep imaginable. Their hands plied through his belongings as swiftly as able. Prying everything apart for the important missive.

Nothing.

Then came their grabbing hands at the man's body.

'Twas Loffrey who found it. Sequestered where light did not shine in solid wooden case.

With some trepidation Cletienne took the locked box. With some mastery of magicks did he pull the envelope contained within. And by the same manner moved out the letter from its sealed containment.

Linnett took it, his eyes tracing the words contained within at the greatest speed.

"'Tis what we expected," the local commander said upon finishing. "She's offering Chancellor Glevanne the Dukedom if he submits."

The Queen just wanted her claws in everything. Not long before her damming gaze was turned on the Church.

"They move as we push them to," said Loffrey. "Reseal the message, no alterations are needed."

Cletienne did as instructed as the other Templars resettled the room. With no further business they left, content in their successes.

* * *

The morning call came and Delita was quick to answer. The first among his group by a good many minutes.

Breakfast was hearty and filling and he was done well before the rest of his squad began.

Surely the reason he was summoned to the Commander's office.

The rest of the officer corps were present in the large room. Easily a third the size of the mess hall yet with only a number of chairs and a desk to furnish it.

"You summoned me?"

"Good, good, at least one of the enlisted still has their wits about," said the local commander from the other side of the desk. "Your name, Templar?"

He surely already knew. "Delita Herial, ser."

"Master Linnett Able." The master leaned back in his chair. He was a short man, Delita was certain he was already taller than him. But he was well-built beneath his pink tabard and gold armor. A dark slick of hair and dull brown eyes. "Now, you're here to receive your duty orders."

"Shall I be amongst the true reason we marched?"

"Pardon?" The man was not surprised.

"One would not send such a heavy concentration of Officers with such a limited amount of Enlisted if we were but to reinforce the men present. Nay, I would presume that there is some greater purpose for which they've all been assigned."

Wiegraf grunted at his words but the commander—Master Linnett smiled. "Well, you weren't wrong Loffrey, he's a cut above the usual rank-and-file we have."

"The High Confessor's eye for talent is rarely wrong."

"Well, Ser Herial, you're sense for planning is not wrong. Baron Grimms has requested a number of reinforcements for suppressing the Order of the Ebon Eye. You're head's proven itself smart enough to accompany, should you so desire."

Wiegraf sneered in disgust. "So all talk of raising sword and flag for the commons was lies? I am not surprised."

"The Ebon Eye are not your Corpse Brigade Folles." The Master glared at him. "They are formed of misbegotten noble core and surrounded by men little more than brigades. Claim their cause all they want, their tactics are dishonorable and wrong. They would hunt commons as well as any ill-intent noble."

"We shall see."

"We travel in disguise, hiding from unpleasant eyes to the Baron Grimms. Whence we defeat his foemen, what then?" Favor with Duke Goltanna was surely not the end goal of this.

The man gave a sly smile. "We shall see."

That was not enough! "I've had my limit with unanswered questions and blind orders."

"You forget your place, Herial." The man's formerly open features closed off.

"My place is where I decide it to be, if I do not mistake the invitation's intent."

His rebuttal caused an eyebrow quirk of annoyance upon the commander's face.

"We aid our own," said Loffrey.

"What?"

"A member of the Templarate already works his aid with the Blackram Knights. Our intent is not to end the Ebon Eye but lay claim on certain resources."

Some manner of deception then? "Those are?"

"To be told if your trust is ample. No fool shouts their plans from the roofs to all who listen."

The closely guarded wording meant this was as far as he might press it. "I understand. If you would have me I'd offer my services in this venture."

"So be it. You are dismissed."

So simply then. Delita walked away. The remainder of his time a mix of anxiety and curiosity.

* * *

Clad in plain clothing and with equipment stored in a trunk, the Templars in disguise set out eastward into Zeltennia. The Officers, save Linnett but including Meliadoul, Delita, Casey of all people and three more "trusted" enlisted made their march.

The ride over gave talk to their true purpose. Securing a number of Southern Sky cloaks and armors while also placing a man within the Blackrams ranks.

Delita was not the only one for consideration for the latter.

It took two days for them to journey to the Blackram encampment. Which was less a mass of tents and the makings of a small village. Situated a good deal off the normal roads near what used to be a forest. A number of makeshift wooden buildings had been constructed in the middle of a stake and ditch perimeter and a few watchtowers posted. It was a far different mobilization from the Northern Sky's assault against the Corpse Brigade.

A pair of sentries barred their entrance but a few words from Loffrey gave them entrance and directions to the stables, mess and where Baron Grimms made his command. Delita brought his face bare, whilst Wiegraf kept it hidden still.

The inside of the camp was overflowing with men and women keeping busy. A chorus of voices, clangs and shouts. Not all wearing the livery of the sentries in front. 'Twould be no surprise to see Southern Sky in the camp, but a dozen other crests and Orders Delita had never heard or seen were settled in like they belonged.

The Templars moved to the large building in the center of the camp-town after stabling their chocobos. A mighty table dominated the dirt-floored room illuminated by lanterns. A dozen people poked and talked about the maps displayed before them. The lead man, the size of a bear, with a mane and beard of bushy black hair, spoke with a heavy voice as he noticed them.

"Ha, more men to aid us I see!" His beard curled with his lips into a smile. "I daresay they're more of yours Palamedes."

"That they are," said the tall, but somewhat thin, blonde knight to the Baron's left.

"Mayhap a fresh set of eyes will see what all ours miss, come, come," he waved them closer, "see if you may yet salvage this disaster."

No need for an exchange of titles and pleasantries here then.

Loffrey indicated them forward and the whole group took position around the suddenly-cramped table edges. On closer inspection of the maps covering the table, they were local maps of Zeltennia. The camp indicated with a large square and a number of bright red "exes" scattered on near every bit of the parchment. Southern Sky forts and Zeltennian cities were outlined in green. No red markings near them. A number of black-and-red swords cut across certain areas as well.

"You've no lead on the whereabouts of the Eye?" asked Loffrey.

"They harry my men whatever patrol or squad we send yet every movement in force finds us naught. Ever since our last victory they meld with the shadows and only strike when the advantage is theirs. I've lost more men to these dishonorable tactics than I did fighting directly."

"So I've noticed."

"How many Orders do you ally yourself with to accomplish this?" asked Alfredo.

The Baron gave a shrug. "All of them."

"You jape," said Claudino.

"I do not. You've seen Southern Sky, I'm sure, but we've Blue Rose Lancers, the White Feather Riders, Twilight Knights, the mercenary band calling themselves Indomitable, men claiming Eastern Sky, Western and one even calling herself a Northern Sky knight."

"Absurd," said Cletienne, "anyone claiming themselves Western Sky would sooner find fortune explaining whence they disappeared to during the war."

"To say naught of the Northern in Southern lands," Meliadoul chimed in.

Delita suppressed a chuckle.

"Broach the issue with them hence, for now I accept all aid given."

"Then let us give our aid," said Loffrey. "What further more is your situation?"

"We've not a damned idea where their commander headquarters himself. The forces afield are led in small groups when we few times catch them. Never a word from their lips, if they let themselves be caught with tongue at all."

"What admirable resolve," complimented Wiegraf.

"You'd think less after what they've done to homesteads nearby," said the Templar named Palamedes. "Putting these cretins to the sword is mercy."

"So say all 'noble intentions'."

Wiegraf's words were quickly turning everyone at the table against him.

Delita fought down a smile just barely.

He turned his attention solely on the maps to brace himself again. Finding the little gaps where the Ebon Eye might yet hide. None near seemed large enough for the implication of where the command might yet be located, so he cast his search further out.

There were a number of stripes of land to the northern coasts that were open. As well as a large island to the north that seemed passing familiar but he couldn't quite put his mind to answering why.

"Sers," Delita spoke up, "what think you of their command being on this northern island?"

"Nelveska?" said the Baron. "Nay boy, 'twould be impossible."

"'Twas the site of Zelmonia fighters for the Fifty Years' War. There would be camp equipment enough to be within the realm of possibility," Wiegraf gave unusually helpful advice.

"And 'tis been cursed since war's end. Not a soul that's set foot on the isle's come back alive."

"Mayhap because the Ebon Eye camps there," said Loffrey, adding his support on.

The Baron ruminated on the information with a deep furrowing of his brow. "If you think it so able you've your own eyes to check. But I'll keep my men working in Zeltennia proper."

No support at all for what may well be the Blackram's goal. He'd enough of such responsibility passing!

"Then we shall," said Loffrey, quite to the surprise of everyone.

"'Tis far from guaranteed, ser," offered Delita. Even with it as his idea.

"'Be where your enemy thinks you not'," he said. "Barbaneth Beoulve's words. I consider it enough to warrant inspection."

"So be it," the Baron nodded. "My camp's resources are at your disposal should you choose to make use of them."

"Appreciated, Your Lordship. But we shall hold fast our own supplies. Palamedes, remain here."

"Aye, ser."

With another nod, Loffrey had them exit. Walking back through the camp-town, Loffrey said, "We'll spend time for rest for the mounts. Eat, talk, do what you will but return to the stables in hour's time."

Before any answers could be given a woman's voice broke through everything. Familiar, sweet, loud and saying his name:

"Delita!"

Slender arms wrapped him from behind.

"Gylda…"

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Originally I was going to include the trip to Nelveska in this Chapter but I thought it fair similarity to end it on Delita meeting a former friend too.**

 **Asahar4: Thank you for your Review. There are certain plot beats I want to hit and write towards how to make it a reality in line with character actions. If I can't fit something in without someone going heavily out-of-character or doing something idiotic or contrived to drive the plot I'll scrape it. Well, it's not full-proof, obviously. I will say I've got a clear vision for what I want the ending to be, just no detailed plan how to get there.**

 **Guest: Thank you for your Review. The ones who would be important are Ramza's cadet team (Stone, Fulke, Gylda, Margarete, Deitrich and Pelinne) the Templar Officers (Alfredo, Claudino, Linnett, Palamedes) and the fourth Lionsguard knight (Annabelle). The OCs in the prior chapter receiving names is to contrast how Ramza thinks compared to his peers. Delita in this Chapter cares not for the other Templar enlisted names. Incidentally, the Templar OCs are named after the unused Templars.**

 **Thank you all for reading and have a resolved day.**


	38. Chapter 37: Beoulve Purpose

**Chapter 37: Beoulve Purpose**

"Beowulf Cadmus," the Celebrant's said his voice harsher than any training sergeant, "for your crimes of heresy, assault, killing, refusing rightful arrest and conspiracy against both the Church of Glabados and the Kingdom of Ivalice you are hereby scheduled for death immediate. May your sould find redemption in Etro's hands."

"No," said Ramza as he stood from Fulke's body. His hands clenched white-knuckled under his gauntlets. "Ser Cadmus by which crimes are you accused?" He brought his bloodsoaked blade back for when it shall be used.

"You have heard the accusations levied against this heretic already! Begin!" The Inquisitors and Templars moved in.

"Belay that!" Ramza ordered! They stopped. "You will hold your steps 'til I hear answer or you shall yet face my mythril."

The clashing of Offices formed a delicate pact that none of the others dare sought to breach.

"Ser Cadmus answer!"

"You seek parley after my men's bodies cool?"

"Would you prefer to join them?"

A moment's hesitation crossed the fallen knight's brow before his answer. "I only presume who impugns my person but 'twould be Celebrant Bremondt Freitberg."

The name passed unfamiliar to Ramza. But a Celebrant would hold the prestige and influence to accuse the Captain of the Gryphon Knights. "Your Excellency?"

Celebrant Lucianada seethed with a barely restrained anger. "The matter of whom did inform us of Cadmus' ill-intent is irrelevant in face of the crimes I bore personal witness towards."

"Bremondt's crimes," answered Beowulf. "All crimes you levy upon myself are applicable to him truly."

"Celebrant Freitberg is among the most devout men in Ivalice."

"And Ser Cadmus among the most honorable," Ramza exaggerated. But Fulke would not support any man guilty of such crimes!

"I made more impression on you than I'd realized," said Beowulf.

"Your frolic together does not clear the suspicion upon his head," said the Celebrant. "Inquisitors make ready." His men returned their weapons up.

"Templars shields up!" Ramza commanded.

They did so.

Time spent speaking with them coming to fore.

"You will be censured for this, Templar!" the Celebrant threatened. "You would soon find yourself in much the same situation should you continue this madness."

"Mayhap yes, but I would hear Ser Cadmus' testimony first."

There were few more dangerous places than between Templar and Inquisition. The threat of such finally pushing Ser Cadmus to act. "The Celebrant Bremondt Frietberg is the culprit of all the crimes levied at me, as I've said before. He has long since coveted my beloved, attempting to buy her favor with gil, jewels and station. She rejected his advances. His attempts grew more bold and dangerous, slandering my name, accusing me of foul magicks to cloud her mind. He would not accept that she did not love him. So he sought to remove his competition." Beowulf's face formed hard as stone. "He confronted us, spewing his wild lies once again but with a spell at their end. One aimed at myself. But my beloved Reis interceded, protecting me and becoming… a dragon."

"A dragon?" Similar enough to the report.

"I know not where the Celebrant learned such high magicks but whence his spell unleashed he thrust blame unto me whilst fleeing." Beowulf looked at the Celebrant. "To loose the Inquisition upon me, 'twould be."

"Why then," the Celebrant said, "did you not provide this testimony once confronted?"

"Bremondt is far above my station to shield myself from. To make no mention of the bullheaded nature of the Inquisition."

A few angry glances were thrown his way.

"Now my loyal men lie dead, my beloved is lost and the Inquisition comes to cover Bremondt's crimes."

"A fine fabrication, tempered by weeks of retreat. How many times have you spun that story in your mind? Repeated it in the mirror?" asked the Celebrant. "'Tis no matter, your escape struck Inquisitors thus you are guilty."

"'Tis no lies that part my lies I assure you, Lugria. Sword raised for one's defense retains legal."

"Flee us you may yet claim reasonable, but you've no cause to come Lesalia, ply with traitors to the crown when you could arrive to Mullonde of own volition."

"Crimes I admit my party too, yes, but the men bleeding aside makes trade fair for bloodshed pior," said Beowulf. "I came to Lesalia for my beloved's sake, find tome of curses to learn how to undo hers. The Church's archives far beyond a 'heretic's' reaches."

Ramza asked, "What of the men you party yourself to?"

"They are as you know: Rebels against the crown. I know little of why, only that the claim to fight the tyranny of Her Majesty's reign. But they were even with me so I lent my aid against targets of my choosing, Those gone unpunished for crimes they did commit."

"So say all such violent thugs," said the Celebrant. "There is little here but evidence of your crimes. Prepare yourself, heretic."

"Inscribed within the pages of the book I acquired, _The Dark Dragon Cult: An Ancient Heresy_ , there is manner by which to unmake the curse Bremondt inflicted upon my beloved."

"Irrelevant."

"Fully relevant, Inquisitor," said Ramza. "By burden of guilt upon either party, Ser Cadmus' beloved would bear witness to the true criminal behind this crime."

"We've not her in our hands to say nothing of any biases she would have."

"You've biases of your own Inquisitor, lest you not dismiss the accusations against Celebrant Freitberg so handily."

The Celebrant scoffed at the rebuttal but did not reply himself.

"Ser Cadmus, by how would this curse be cleansed?"

The Gryphon Knight shifted uneasily. "Auracite. The Holy Stone inscribed with 'Cancer' specifically."

"You would profane the most holy artefacts with your heretical touch!" the Celebrant's anger was thicker than the walls.

"I would undo a false holy man's wicked crimes with it. What could be more holy than that?"

"An endless rain of lies."

"Ones we shall see through then," said Ramza. "Ser Beowulf Cadmus, under the authority granted to me by my station under the Office of the Knights Templar, I hereby order you arrested for the crimes of injuring Church and plotting against the Crown. You shall be brought before a tribunal in Mullonde to defend yourself against the charges of heresy."

The Celebrant stepped forward. "I have had enough of your imputence. This is a matter for the Inquisition, not the Templarate."

"It became so when you approached us for alliance."

"Under my Office, not for you to act on your own volition."

"Do you need word from the Grand Master to pursue heretic in front of you? Then I need not your permission to take charge of a man mayhap falsely accused."

The Celebrant's otherwise calm visage twisted into a righteous indignation against the wall of Beoulve refusal. "This is not your matter. This is not your prisoner. You shall be excised from the Templarate for your steadfast refusal of the truth. For defending this heretic so vigorously you may well be declared one as such yourself." his gaze moved upon the other Templars. "That goes for each of you, as well."

A few days words were naught to being a heretic. The other Templars backed down.

Ramza stood ever straighter. "I do not care what you declare me, only for what is true and right."

"This is true and right."

Neither man would back down.

"Oh, you're all alive."

Ramza snapped over to see Isilud and O'Neal descending into the basement.

"I presumed you'd all met Saint Ajora for the time taken."

The Celebrant reacted sooner, a lifetime of speaking given the edge. "Ser Tengille, excellent, your compatriot here refuses to let the judgement upon the heretic come to pass. Speak some sense into him, if you would kindly."

Isilud passed blank looks between the two of them, and the whole room. "Good job at following orders?" he lazily said.

"What!?" the Celebrant's outrage was ear-splitting.

Isilud shrugged. "We are under orders to take him into custody ourselves."

Ramza had done his best to keep those orders silent.

"Then you mishear."

"My Lord Father rarely misspeaks. But if you harbor that intent you are at liberty to ask him yourself."

Grand Master against Head Inquisitor.

Head against the two most prestigious Offices of the Church. Such a thing could sunder the Church's authority. Whom but the most devout would pledge to a House divided?

"I shall be expressing my displeasure with Lord Tengille in person then." Against all odds the Celebrant relented. "Do not think this matter over, young Templars. Any of you. Inquisitors, we are leaving. You, Templars, shall deal with the bodies."

A flick of the head saw the Inquisitors leave so effortlessly. A deathly silence taking the room back over.

Ramza loosed a deep sigh of relief. "My thanks for your intervention, Isilud, but your words place an unfair weight upon your Lord Father."

"His shoulders are strong enough to bear."

"I think you broche greater difficulties upon us then." Unlike to go over well.

"Better then than now."

Beowulf feigned a cough to draw all attention to him. "I offer my thanks, young Templars."

"Your thanks belong with another," said Ramza kneeling down to the body of Fulke.

"Him?" asked Beowulf. "Who was he to you?"

"My friend."

* * *

Clearing the bodies and coordinating with the Northern Sky for disposal took the greater part of an hour. The time passed in a gloomy silence as Beowulf, now chained and stricken of his sword, watched his men pulled away.

Ramza quite knew how he felt. Fulke would be stripped of his dignity and burned as nothing but a heinous criminal.

Beowulf's life did not feel like a victory if Fulke's was the trade.

Isilud volunteered to take charge of the body transfer to let Ramza get some rest and the Beoulve was only to happy to comply.

The Templars walked back to their base Church in the same silence. Any attempts to lighten the mood drawn black by misery.

The Church was little better, the Inquisitors glaring at them the while. Even as they ate their last meals before setting back off.

It took some time for Isilud to return. He complained of some bothering and petty procedure that delayed him. But they were well to leave now.

With their prisoner in chains, the Church Forces left the Royal Capital.

* * *

"Lord Commander Beoulve, you've a guest seeking an audience."

Zalbaag leaned back in his chair. More uninvited guests at this hour? "The Church again?"

"Yes, ser, the Templar accompanying the Celebrant earlier."

"Send him in."

"Ser."

His subordinate left and was shortly replaced by the Templar in green livery.

"Lord Beoulve," the young man said. "I pray this day finds you well?"

"Well enough. How goes your search?"

"Complete, thank you for asking. And moreover thanks for your gracious allowance of letting our work go unimpeded."

None but the Royal Family could stop the Inquisition's path. "Very good. But what more is there?" Such a message could easily been relayed through the Order Knights.

"You are as clever as you are devout, Lord Beoulve. If I may approach?"

"You may." The Templar lacked weapon on hand, though his hands may yet be weapons.

"Thank you." The young man stepped forward and retrieved an object from his surcoat. His hands kept it hidden, placed it on the table between them. He pulled away, leaving the most wondrous sight imaginable on the desk.

A quarter-circle of glorious orange emblazoned with the symbol of Libra on its face.

"Auracite…" Zalbaag's voice was a whisper to the shout of a most holy artefact being presented to him.

"Your devotion to the Church has always been true, Lord Beoulve. This is but a token of our appreciation for such."

"I cannot take this."

"It is yours, Lord Beoulve. This is our trust in you, for your trust in us."

His hands moved without commands, tracing the rough lines of the stone with his bare fingers. A warmth he'd never felt before in his life filling him.

He clutched it to his chest like one would their love.

He embraced the Gods ever closer than before.

"Go with the Gods, Lord Beoulve." The young Templar said before he left.

The Gods love was genuine beyond doubt.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: "Beoulve then" indeed.**

 **Spiritblade: Thank you for your Review. Mountains of bodies, rivers of blood. How much of it shall lie on Beoulve hands? Does a throne await at the top or is it all to be left behind?**

 **Thank you all for reading and have a comfortable day.**


	39. Chapter 38: The Curse

**Chapter 38: The Curse**

"You're alive…" Her voice was soft as silk as she comforted him.

The other Templars gave him odd looks.

Wiegraf beneath his helm was surely furious. His body shook as he saw yet another person culpable in his sister's end.

But that did not matter.

Delita pulled free—she did not resist—and turned to face her. Still shorter than him. Her honey-blonde hair at ear-length and slightly wavy. Her face a mix of an adult woman's sharp features tickled with a child's few spots of freckles. Still garbed in a white mage's robes, slightly battered by overuse now.

"You're alive…" Tears were in her blue eyes.

"Aye," he lightly replied. "By the Gods will They see it true."

"And Tietra?" Her face brimmed with hope!

"Nay."

Dashed like waves against rocks.

"I'm sorry." She rushed in for another hug.

He reciprocated. But they could not maintain this forever. He did not care for the stares allotted them but the time must be managed. "I must depart, for now, but we shall speak again, you and I."

"No," she broke away, "I will not leave you so easily. We go together, then."

He should have known. "'Tis not my decision to make." He indicated his "superiors".

"I request to travel with you."

"Granted," said Loffrey.

"Ser?" said Delita.

"We lack a white mage's finesse should the worst come to pass," he answered.

"Yes, ser."

* * *

The departing Templars purchases some additional provisions before they departed, Glyda in escort.

The former comrades exchanged their stories during the ride north.

Delita retelling his mysterious arrival in Gariland. Ramza's retrieval. The crossed nature of working with the Church. Deitrich and Pelinne.

Gylda answered that mystery, saying she'd left to let their romance blossom without an onlooker. She had left a note, so hearing they'd thought she vanished was a curious thing indeed.

She wandered aimlessly, before hearing call for arms for the Blackrams. With nothing but healing arts else to provide herself with she joined.

Not revealing herself as a former Northern Order knight, (that was some other woman unfamiliar to both).

All the while other Templars "harassed" them on their journey. No jeers, but jape aplenty and a plenty annoyance as they did.

He silenced their mouths with a few well-aimed remarks back at them.

Gylda doing her part in proving her own just as well.

A few days later met them a sizable fishing village named Junon running along the coast north of Zeltennia Castle.

Refilling their rations was a simple task. Fish sold for cheap in the town.

Finding passage to the Isle was far more difficult.

It took the whole of the day to even find a ship master willing to not dismiss the idea out of hand. Then the rest of it bargaining the man down to a sensible amount of gil. The gil to pay his initial offer would have sunk his sorry excuse of a boat.

It was a damp miserable experience the whole two days sail north. The Church's previous ships had been sublime in comparison. Every attempt at sleep was broken by waves hitting the ship and shoving the world about.

He'd never been so glad to stride upon dry land in his life.

Loffrey bid the fish-smelling master stay while the Templars proceeded deeper into the island. Casey and another enlisted to remain behind to ensure cooperation.

The sands of the coast surrendered to grass and thick overgrowth of trees and bushes as they walked.

Too much for this island to be occupied. Despite a few clearings they didn't have to hack through and the sometimes cobbled old roads not fully overgrown there was no sight of any Ebon Eye.

Blades worn dull by vegetation and cloth torn by a hundred little scrapes along the way. Sweat in armor and waterskins emptied near to their reserves' end.

No words were exchanged when annoyed grunts of exhaustion could be made in their place.

This was a waste of time.

He knew Loffrey was about to call it off. Could see it on the Templar's face. His lips moved as he cut through a branch.

Into a large clearing.

It was still nothing, no signs of human activity in any length of time.

But a large road forward was not fully consumed by nature's life. Much of it had been born away, but enough led towards a building embedded in a mountain ahead.

Signs of previous occupancy did dot this area. Broken tents, crates and weaponry were thrown about in haste. Whatever drove the men away did its job well.

A few pillars connected to nothing led towards the building's entrance. All old stone, colored well by how many years of disuse?

But all far from their goal.

"This was a bloody waste of time!" Barich yelled.

"I thought you'd enjoy the break, Barich," said Cletienne as smugly as possible.

"Break!?" Barich threw down the dull knife. "I see but a few drops of sweat on your brow you lazy lout!"

"A stick is not much for cutting foliage."

"Nor is your shameful excuse for wit."

The two men glared daggers at one another.

"I would see you both infirm and raw if you continue this pettiness," said Alfredo.

"Enough," said Loffrey. "Expeditions do not always return success. We return to the Blackrams with all haste." He faced Delita. "Herial, these expenses shall come from your pay."

"Yes, ser." No reason to argue.

"Hold," said Gylda, "we've yet to explore the deepest recesses of the isle. There is much more to do before determining this fruitless."

"Then you are at liberty to do so," said Loffrey. "But I have seen no bird to carry message to command, heard no animal or man watching us. Our party is small, ripe for ambush upon a locale they would have watched. They hide themselves well or their numbers too few to challenge us. Either case has them avoid us."

'Twas not a foolproof answer, but what was?

"I concede to your point."

The earth _moved_.

Delita, among many others, fell to their knees or ground as their footing was unsettled by Ivalice's shaking. Just like the damned ship that brought them over.

"What is that!?" yelled Meliadoul.

"An earthquake," Cletienne, blithely answered.

"No!" The world settled. "There!" Her sword drawn she pointed at the old stone building in the distance.

The entrance very suddenly occupied.

A man, larger than any Delita had ever seen. Its head nearly smashed into the ceiling that was nigh-twice Delita's height as it walked forward. Each step so heavy the thick thuds could be heard at their position. Its body armor a massive steel ball. Arms thicker than a man's legs; legs thicker than a man's torso. A helmet open, with naught but glowing red eyes within.

Still, it somehow spoke:

"WARNING! WARNING! HUMAN ENTRY PROHIBITED! VACATE PREMISES WITHIN 30 SECONDS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. 30…"

Its "voice" a contortion of a man's thrown through metal and lightning. Each booming word enough to shake bones.

All swords were drawn.

"29…"

"We retreat," Loffrey ordered. All feet whimpered that direction already.

"28…"

"Hold," Barich of all people said. "We must destroy that construct."

"25…"

"Are you quite mad!?" Cletienne unleashed. "Its hands would envelop our heads!"

"22…"

"Such a thing passes familiar."

"21…"

"Goug?" asked Loffrey.

"20…"

They were about to embark on a suicide mission, weren't they?

"Bits and pieces and such a thing would not move without great power behind it."

"17…"

The lead Templar's gaze passed between man and machine. "We put it to rubble then."

"15…"

"Then let us return with a hundred Templars!" Cletienne pleaded.

"13… SYSTEM ERROR!"

Oh, that was not possibly good!

"3—2—1. ANNIHILATION MODE INITIATED. RESEARCH STAFF: EVACUATE TO SHELTERS IMMEDIATELY!"

Yet his words still felt an underestimate as the creature of metal charged at them! For its size it maintained well-speed and the earth shook even where Templars stood as it moved.

Spells of protect and haste were spent upon them as Loffrey ordered them forward in a shield wall.

The thing's fingers were thicker than their blades!

It was a frightful line-up of men, overlapping their protection forward that sought to greet them.

They all knew it was useless.

So why did they persist?

The metal-man's tackled sent them all flying. It plowed through their formation like it was a stick fence.

Delita landed hard on the ground, painful, but nothing seemed broken.

He could not say the same for the dead man whose eyes met him.

He did not even know his name.

But that didn't matter as the person whose name he knew longest became target of the thing's ire.

Gylda ducked behind a tree but its fists punched straight through. Chunks of wood thrown about. Some hitting her as she continued to fall back.

The thing wrenched arm free as the first spells fell upon it.

Nothing.

Even as lightning, ice and fire shook its frameworks the giant did not desist. Brushing the magicks off like they were but a light breeze.

The metal-man rampaged through the forest after her. Its arms battering aside the fully grown trees like sticks stuck in earth.

Barish loosed his own attack with the accompanying crack. Yet not even the plate-piercing bullet bored its way through the thick armor ball.

Delita took to his feet after them. He had to aid Gylda's retreat.

Strikes of magic swords rent with their force. Meliadoul, and Loffrey and Wiegraf.

None stopped it.

Glyda cleared her cover and Delita drew her away from the metal-man's path.

The giant slowed. For whatever reason Delita did not care but he was grateful for.

The two of them fell back to the ragged formation of officers and the three other enlisted that could still move.

"I heartily repeat my suggestion to retreat!" Cletienne said, his voice pitched in worry.

"Unyielding Blade strikes no effect," Meliadoul voiced her own concerns.

"We cannot match this monster in melee," said Loffrey, his voice without strain at all. "We must do so by cleverness."

The thing uprooted trees as it moved. 'Twould take a mountain falling to stop it!

Or, mayhap! "If we may lure it to the building it emerged from we could collapse the roof upon it!" said Delita.

"You volunteer to be the bait for this hook?" asked Wiegraf. A smile clear at play behind his helmet.

"We've one among us who can teleport, no?" Delita looked over at the suddenly very nervous Cletienne.

"We know naught of what awaits me within!" he weakly pleaded.

"We know what awaits without, 'tis enough," said Loffrey. "Fighting retreat! Skirmish formation; Barich, Cletienne lure it to the cave's mouth."

The Templars spread out to a loose formation as they backed off towards the building.

The metal giant and whatever tide of vigor it moved with surged back into its full run.

Something so large should not run as swiftly as a chocobo!

Even with the haste spells aiding them the giant gained.

Metal boots beat upon stone.

Metal feet crushed stone.

The poor fools at the line's end were tossed aside like trash. One man was thrown a ship's length behind. The second thrown ahead of the retreating Templars, falling upon one of the pillars flanking the path. His sword fell from his grip. If he was not dead he would be soon.

Delita and Gylda were next in its path.

He put everything he could into his burning legs to the run. He dropped his sword. Every bit helped! Gylda dropped her staff, cursed her robes and still moved faster than his plate-encumbered self.

Ahead the Templars were already scattering around the cave.

Behind he dare not look.

The heavy thuds closed in, each one preparing Delita for doom. Each one flashing pictures of Tietra in his mind.

"Roll!" he choked out.

Him to the right. Gylda to the left.

The metal giant still slammed through his legs throwing him about and flailing to the ground. He gaped out in pain as both his legs felt on the verge of breaking while all the weight shoved on his arm crushed it sore. It'd bruise, if they lived through this.

He squinted, blood was in his eyes now. The deathbringer crushed through the last man in its way. A cry of anguish going out as the giant simply ran over the man too foolish to leap out of the way.

Only Barich and Cletienne remained in its path.

The machinist Templar fired off one last shot that accomplish naught before running away.

The metal giant ignored him.

Whatever divine providence blessed them it was falling for their ploy exactly.

Cletienne vanished into the darkened cave and soon after did his pursuer.

The dull thuds of the earth breaking echoed out.

No sounds of bone being broken.

Delita struggled to his feet even with Gylda's white magicks mending his wounds.

Still nothing but thuds.

The Templars gave the cave maw a wide berth as they set a perimeter; Delita joining them after retrieving his sword.

"How exactly do we intend to collapse this?" Barich posed the question.

"With as many spells as we might muster," said Delita.

"This temple has endured since the Cataclysm and that thing marching its corridors for a thousand years. A few spells accomplish naught that countless lifetimes of nature's wrath would."

"You were the one who claimed this imperative Barich!" said Meliadoul.

"Mayhap your eyes see structural vulnerabilities where mine do not."

"The stone crumbles around us. What remains inside could not be so resistant."

"Herial's friend," Claudino addressed Gylda. "Are you perchance skilled in geomancy?" She shook her head. "A shame that."

Cletienne reappeared above and shouted! "DO IT!"

Thunder of magick struck structure's roof as Cletienne bolted away.

Thunder of gun struck on concert with fire and ice at the building's entrance.

Magick, magick, magick every bit of spell power they could bring to bear unleashed against the old temple!

The ground rumbled.

The building shook!

A glint of metal shone briefly before the building collapsed.

Dust and rubble thrown into the air—choking off sight, sound and throat.

It had to work. Through closed eyes and covered mouth he prayed it work.

When air no longer pressed his body he opened, his eyes still stinging from what dust did hit him.

A few motes flew about, as always.

The whole hill the building delved into had collapsed.

There was no sign of the metal giant.

Or Cletienne.

"Cletienne!" Meliadoul cried out. "Cletienne reveal yourself!"

"You summoned?"

His sudden voice from behind yelped Meliadoul, Delita and Gylda to surprise.

"Do not make me worry like that you fool!"

"Apologies, my lady," his words held no other inflection than true as he gave a bow. His robes had browned well with dirt clumps. "I was but following my orders as planned by another."

"Do not pass the blame unto me, Ser Duroi," said Delita.

"I wouldn't dream of such." He gave a thin grin.

"Your pay will be docked if you accuse your superiors so blithely," said Loffrey.

"Foul time to find humor, Ser Wodring."

The rubble _moved_.

Someone whispered: "Impossible…"

Rocks as large as man's head and enough dirt to fill a house were tossed through the air like weightless pebbles and dust.

The metal giant emerged, without a single scratch on its armor.

"I second the plan of retreat," said Wiegraf. Of course he would.

"Nay," Barich, of all people, rejected it. "The advantage is ours now." He leveled his pistol at the head of the giant. The thick crack and smoke erupted from the barrel as he fired. The bullet slammed into the giant's face (for lack of a better term).

Magick, sword arts and a building had not caused the monster even a flinch.

Its head wretched back from the force that struck it.

The one vulnerability it had. That no man would be mad enough to exploit. No swordsmen would invade within arms reach. No arrow could be readied while giant charged. Only a crossbow or gun could accomplish such a feat.

But even if it took damage from such desperate gambit, it did not cause the metal beast felled. It hunched back forward as its arms worked to pry itself from the rubble around it. Buried up to is ball-chest; 'twould not take long.

"Keep it still whilst I reload," Barich ordered. "Target its joints, if your confidence overrides sense."

"Templars, to the melee!" Loffrey gave a real order.

"Yes, I shall whack it with my stick, that shall prove exceptionally useful!" Cletienne rebelled against him.

"More so than our blades, I claim."

Cletienne opened his mouth to complain. For a pillar shattering nearby to stop him fast.

Eyes back to the giant. The same stones it was clawing away now held tight in his fists.

Stone Throw.

"Duck!" Delita roared and followed his own advice.

Templars and extra fell to the ground as the head-sized rocks were thrown over them.

What a bizarre trick for a centuries-old intelligence to rely upon.

But mayhap why it was so effective.

The volley of stones impacted on legs and chests but never heads. More pillars broke down from the onslaught, obscuring vision and position. Enough to hide behind, for the time at least. No use as shields.

He crawled behind one, his legs burning with a new pain.

Loffrey, Gylda and Meliadoul were at the forefront with him. No time to spend looking for others.

"You," Loffrey addressed Gylda, "spells on us. Herial, you and I lead this charge." He looked back. "The rest of you: Spread and advance when its ire turns to us!" His face had not changed in the least as he ordered the charge.

A chunk of the pillar was blown out besides their heads. Shards of stone bounced off their helms.

"This strikes me as suicidal, ser," said Delita.

"We should use this time to retreat," agreed Gylda.

"I should advance with you," added Meliadoul.

"You've your orders, enact them."

"I've enough with rotten orders," Delita glared at him, "I'll not charge into death's maw for no reason said!"

"You'd prefer to fell with eyes turned away from your pursuer? Should it reach the beach it would simply chuck trees at our little boat paddling back to the ship. 'Twould be folly to retreat as is."

Dammit. "Your point is made."

"Save your breath for running." He next faced Meliadoul. "'Twould be safer for my head to run into this thing's sights than inform your Lord Father I ordered the same."

"I am not so fragile."

"I am not ordering you to charge."

Realization dawned on Meliadoul's eyes. "I understand, ser."

With no further interruptions not caused by rocks coming perilously close to beheading them, Gylda turned her magicks upon reinforcing vigor and protection.

"Go."

The order was louder than thunder while said as a whisper.

With all the flagging strength he could muster Delita pushed to his feet and a run.

Loffrey on his left; Meliadoul on his right.

He followed closer to the latter as the Templars spread to avoid the oncoming barrage.

The metal monster had freed itself to the waist, yet remained at its station. Rocks thrown—breaking air making noise as they soared and missed.

Its aim was focused entirely on them.

The gunshot rang out and the giant's head struck backwards again. The stone it held loosed and fell.

The forward three ducked to the giant's sides, covering themselves within the hills of rubble. Enough cover to stop the metal-man's throws. More than cracked and broken pillars at any rate.

"Cover them!" Loffrey shouted from his unseen fastness.

Delita could do naught but toss stones blindly (while cursing himself for carrying sword over bow) whilst Meliadoul unleashed her spellswords.

He could not see any effect on the giant's throws at the advancing second wave.

A small boulder struck Cletienne as he made his attempt, sending the Templar sorcerer to the ground in agony.

Wiegraf and Alfredo made their runs towards Loffrey's side.

Claudino had… vanished?

Had be fallen somewhere beyond Delita's sight?

Literally.

A flash of gold drew his attention skywards to see the man plummeting from upon where the metal giant would be. The clash of metal against metal shook out into the air.

"Templars to the fore!" Loffrey roared and rounded back in sight with Wiegraf in two and dipped back away towards the metal-man.

Meliadoul gave him a nod before taking the lead. Even with his reservations he couldn't leave it at that, and followed her in.

The Templars already in assault dipped and dodged around the immobile giant's flailing. But whilst they could not be hit, their swords did naught but deflect uselessly against the giant's plates.

Even Meliadoul, bringing to bear a knight sword upon its arms did naught but join her comrades in futility.

They were all far more talented in combat than he, adding his sword to theirs would accomplish naught as well.

But strike at the exposed "face"?

Delita hefted a palm-sized stone. If he could wedge it within he might yet blind it in a manner Barich had not.

His aim was interfered with allied metal. Loffrey swung his blade 'round towards its head, but the giant caught and shattered it like a twig.

The Divine Knight pulled away with a rare scowl on his face.

Claudino struck it from behind to a continued no effect. Even stabs at open joints produced naught. He was some manner of safe, as the giant's arms could not reach behind without great effort.

As its arms flailed about to strike the flanking Templar, Alfredo stepped forward to hack at its arm joints. She dodged around its arms, but her sword gave way before she. Backing away she unleashed a quick aurablast to cover her flight.

It was clear enough for him now. He pulled back his arm and threw the small rock with unwavering accuracy.

It lodged perfectly within the helm. One red eye blocked gray. His name never truer.

Followed shortly by another shot of Barich colliding into the other eye. Destroying it.

The thing was blinded!

"Draw its attention! Meliadoul remove its head!" Loffrey yelled his order and the Templars moved in response, Delita included.

Fists that paled in comparison to the metal giant's were thrown. Swords that could but scratch it were swung.

Everything done to breach an opening!

Beneath the minor barrage it clawed free its one remaining red eye. It ignored them all, its damming gaze set forward.

At Barich.

"DISPOSING OF TARGET."

Its chest parted three ways, petrifying everyone in place. None dared to intervene between the three massive cannons now protruding from its chest. Barich, in the distance, dove for whatever semblance of cover the fallen pillar nearby would offer him.

From the barrels came lines of purple-blue light so bright Delita averted his gaze lest it blind him. But even through his edge's view he could see it fall upon Barich with a number of explosions that rent the man incapable of even crying out.

"NOW!" Loffrey put everything he had into attacking again! Bludgeoning the thing with his shield.

Alfredo was caught with awkward footing and thrown aside by their foe.

Loffrey was caught a glancing blow but enough to force him collapsed.

Delita and Wiegraf struck, drawing its attentions to opposites! Claudino at its back!

Meliadoul ducked in low and used legs and arms in unison to pierce its head!

The tip of her sword struck true and through and she drove the blade to its guard through the metal man's helmet.

The red eye went dark.

They had won.

All the pushed aside fatigue rushed back like the tides and Delita near-collapsed into the rubble.

Meliadoul pried her sword loose after some difficulty and those that still moved tended to those who could not.

The rubble-strewn Templars slowly began their march back towards Gylda, who tended to both Barich and a sitting Cletienne nearest a small crater caused by the giant's likewise giant cannons.

She flashed them a smile as they drew closer…

One that quickly became a horrified gasp.

"SYSTEM FAILURE."

The damned metal-and-thunder voice returned.

"UNABLE TO RECHARGE POWER."

Delita, and all, turned to face the relit giant.

"CONNECTING RESERVE CIRCUITS."

The giant pulled itself free.

Claudino, freest from injury, returned to the sky with sword in hand to put this monstrosity down for eternity.

The giant's chest opened. Light gathered at its barrels as everyone dove out of its range.

But the giant tipped upwards.

It loosed the barrage of half-dozen bolts of magic.

Claudino could not dodge.

Barich maintained some semblance of mobility and endured the edges of the blast that assailed him.

Claudino could not.

Every single one impacted on his helpless frame. Every blast that Barich narrowly survived now struck horrifyingly true.

Claudino fell limply, with a dull thud. His body glowed blue.

He did not move.

The giant did.

Its body, so invulnerable before suddenly exploded of its own volition. The cannons on its chest torn asunder.

But still it attempted to move.

Cletienne materialized in front of it. His hands gripped tight around his pole as he delivered a thrust into the foul machine's hollow helm!

The amalgamation of all their works saw him succeed as he tore the head free of its body.

Again, the body died. A fist so close to striking gone stiff as statue.

It could not possibly endure its head departing. It could not!

Cletienne fell back, nearly back to them, not willing to risk a second return to life from the nightmare.

"See to Claudino," Loffrey ordered Gylda. "We shall rend that thing to scrap."

So little care for the previous dead men.

The grim Templars that remained standing made to a march. A wretched smell of melted flesh and steel assaulting nostrils as they went closer.

"...with me now do treat." A voice that flowed like water through cracks invaded Delita's mind. It penetrated deep and froze, expanding and filling him with a dread he could not fathom.

"What is that?" said Delita, looking for a source of this new voice. 'Twas not the walking machine, was it?

"Your spirit and my flesh as one shall merge."

"Show yourself!" Loffrey shouted.

"Flesh undying forever more."

"What is this!?" Cletienne panicked. "This voice invades my very soul!"

"Help…" Claudino's voice gasped more anguished than Wiegraf's at sister's loss.

"Thy pact is made; thy fate given. Zebbev the Punisher shall pass judgement upon thy foe."

A ruby-red light engulfed Claudino!

* * *

 **Author's Note: Well that happened! Fun Fact: All twelve Lucavi were actually named in the original _Final Fantasy Tactics_. The ones that went unrealized were retconned in _Final Fantasy XII_ to be named after previous Final Fantasy end bosses. Zebbev here would have been Zeromus.**

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 **Thank you all for reading and have an invigorating day.**


	40. Chapter 39: Condemnation

**Chapter 39: Condemnation**

The depth of light deepened and folded inwards on the shape of Claudino's body still blurred beyond sight.

A limb, or such slashed against the world's sense as it grew out of the red mass. Growing, growing larger, drawing all attention until it sized itself a claw large enough to crack the metal giant in half.

The source enlarged, another limb, the left an arm no less massive.

Bulging, defying the rules of nature with each second.

It had to be stopped. Deep in his soul every bit roared at him to put end to it.

But he could not.

None of them could.

Every Templar looked on dumbfounded and _scared_ at the scene unfolding itself in front of them. No mere mortal magick could mutate form so vile.

Fingers birth on left hand as arm fully formed. Connected to torso large enough to hold both and a dozen more. A head as well. And most disgusting were the legs, a dozen, each thick as a human's but each tapered to a sharp point whilst the tops connected to some bulbous growth rather than the pelvis.

The red light faded, a deep azure skin catching view. Eye sockets blank and black, a smog thick and billowing from the depths. Face bearing fangs of gray that matched horns now jutting out. It brought the massive crushing claw for inspection, content, if such things could be described with human words, at the blood-red markings inscribed on the metal weapon.

Its legs, so alike a crab's made of blackened metal, drew it about to face the Templars gaping in horror at the creature in front of it. "Magnificence mine forever more." Its mouth moved but the words hacked away at the very soul with a chill deeper than the cold of Ziekden Fortress. "Wisdom, power, cunning, life undying. I am one with creation; truths long forgotten come so clearly. Wonder and thunder of life; reveal, level and upheaval at mine command!"

The gray-metal fangs contorted into a mockery of a smile. "I hear thy cries, worry not, thine shall join the reckoning so soon."

"Kill it."

Voice that reached ear rather than rent heart.

Who knew who spoke it.

He did not care.

A roar loosed from his lips to drown out the clawing within. Sword in hand he charged forth. Recklessness emboldening fresh valor.

Joined by others a refreshing din of courage done in by backs against corner. No alacrity would speed them away from this abomination. The only way back, was forward.

A sickening mimicry of mirth twisted upwards on the metaled jaw of the demon. "Welcome thee, I do. Muscles and sinew forged anew; strength and mentality need flexibility demonstrate."

Its claw rose high, still so large. Still so easily deadly. Armor would not ward from such. Speed: Their only defense!

Muscles sore and inflamed from past exertions Delita pushed himself to limits and beyond. There was naught but life and death in this moment.

All speed forward he dashed between the thing's legs, his sword flashing out, deflecting uselessly off the thick protection. Clang from others behind where he dare not look.

The earth shook, rocked unsteady and threw him to the ground.

He dared look.

The claw slammed into the earth with the force of mountain falling. None more stood. Mayhap the whole island shook.

"Speed away, little rats, scurry, scatter, run and hide. The darkest holes you visit shall not abide."

Weary and shaky Delita forced himself on his feet once again. Their damn foe, that, Zebbev, just mocked them with each screech of his.

Loffrey, Wiegraf, Meliadoul and Alfredo were near, regaining their footing as well.

Gylda, Cletienne and Barich remained where they once were.

Sense returned slowly in spite of the senselessness at fore. "What plan have we?" Delita choked out between desperate gasps of fear-twinged air.

"We must assail it with our full force at once," said Loffrey his voice shaken rare as theirs. "Meliadoul, with me at shattering that claw. Wiegraf blind it best as able. Alfredo sap its strength. Herial, chuck rocks at its head."

With any other foe that would simply be patronizing. For this Delita was very glad indeed.

"Pray, those who remained understand our pursuit."

There'd been no shot of gun heard by Delita.

This was all they could do. Delita eyed some choice stones nearby. Would blinding a thing that lacked eyes be possible? But enough of what was possible had just turned. Even if it would be but bite of an ant against such a thing he would sooner die on his feet than his knees.

"Thee find thy spines so soon, let me find them as well."

It turned its damning gaze back upon him. Simply having those horrible empty sockets turn upon him chilled his flesh and froze his sweat.

"Strike!"

Order given all moved with the haste that remained within. Delita dove for the best rocks as magic swords swung in unison. Mighty blows engraved in light engulfed the claw, blast of lightning two times over at its head, magic sword of ruin that did flash red across its blue arms, sound of thunder as Barich shot, light of the heavens that did rain down their holy wrath upon this fiend-above-all.

And he yet with stones thrown at empty eyes.

Eyes seemingly unfazed by all that struck it.

Even as its body did shudder and bleed. A thick disgusting sludge of deep blue.

It can bleed!

It can be killed!

All the horror of the thing beating against the tattered shields of sanity within were battered back with a new sword of resolution.

"I thought thee bring more to bear; unfortunate, mortal craft lacks as always."

"Bluster all you wish monster, you bleed," said Delita.

"Thine full force draws but pinpricks on mine magnificence; shatter and break my old form 'twould but thee are simply ants before the sun."

"Loose your hold on Claudino demon!" Loffrey challenged it.

"Words spoke ignorant and dull. Mortal mind weary as always. I am him; he is me. We are one. One for all."

"You lie."

This was but rest before the next clash.

"Do I, Ser Wodring?" A ripple to the water of the soul followed those words. "That festering regret that ever-lingered on in mine soul cleansed not so easily by pretty word of absolution. So much blood lie upon mine hands, what is a little more?"

Loffrey's eyes narrowed. His only response.

"But enough of this farce I've grown so apt at playing. Lucavi rise over men's lays. Gravija."

Something crushed him.

Every bit on his body was suddenly pressed and crushed like a vice. His chest pushed inwards and air expelled. Pain so great he couldn't even scream. Lungs and heart and all things inside mashed together. His armor crumbled and compressed. His hand gripped sword so tight it hurt.

So suddenly did it end that he stood surprised before all the might of his legs gave and he fell to his knees gasping for new air within.

Everything hurt in a way he could not comprehend. Blood leaked from old wounds, new and every bit of his face.

Around him, through blurred vision the barely-seen forms of everyone else struggled the same.

"The weight of the world upon thine shoulders." The damn thing's voice could still be "heard". Even as each word familiarized it, cut it free of the fearful unknown, the dread truth hurt all the worse.

This was a Lucavi of legend.

By the Gods where was Saint Ajora when they needed him!?

A flash of light and another joined their ranks. Still standing. Only one it could be.

Cletienne.

Why? How?

No, it didn't matter. He was but one more body in between death and… something else. Thought of victory so quickly gone as it appeared.

A voice cut over it all. Through his ringing ears. Familiar, warm. Loud. "Divine air of the heavens, grace us your holy healing! Curaja!"

The highest form of healing any White Mage could possess. Gylda was casting it. But she was too far away to reach them…

Yet the relieving light engulfed them anyway.

Whatever favor she had with the Gods he would never question again.

Pain remained; blood still stained. But movement returned. Enough to stand strong against this vile fright.

"Thank your friend Herial," said Cletienne whence hearing returned. "If we make it out of this."

"We shall," he lied. Hands retrieving fallen sword.

"Mayhap you've a better idea of how to defeat a bloody Lucavi!" The usual arrogance the sorcerer displayed had been beaten cold by the sight in front of them.

"It bleeds; it dies."

"It moves unencumbered by our strongest attacks!"

"So would an ant against us and yet we still reach our ends. Nay, it dies."

Cletienne loosed a defeated sigh.

"Strike and engage it at all times," said Loffrey returning to the lead. "Do not let it a moment's respite. Do all to protect our White Mage."

He'd need to rethink his pitiful white magick skill after this. Assuming as such.

"Alfredo, keep to your attack. Cletienne, set upon us haste and your swiftest spells upon him. The rest to the melee."

Suicide in every direction.

A return of speed came from Cletienne's lips and all haste sped them forward.

"So swifty thee come," its words tore away as they closed the gap, "so swifty thee end." Their steps just outside the claw's range. "Black Hole." Its left hand held high pointed finger to the sky.

They moved to avoid. Enspelled bodies swifter than it could swing or sling their hope.

Only to see, literally see, the very spell enhancing them sucked clear of their bodies into the gaping black chasm above the Lucavi.

"Even fields nev'r belong upon the plains of mortal men."

"It matters not!" Loffrey yelled as he rengaged. "Unleash your attacks!"

Its body hefted high and pocketed with open wounds still reached higher than their blades. So mythril fell upon leg once again. Battling the relatively thin appendages with fatigued arms.

The Lucavi did not see fit to destroy them with claw. Unleashing instead its legs to crush or stab. The basic act of raising the body endowed each one with a fearsome strength and lifting it near-pushed Delita over.

A fearsome plunge fell with leg to skewer Templars. None struck but all came close enough to carve armor thinner. Earth still sunk beneath its lance-like legs.

Thunder and ice edged at Delita's vision, striking again the main body of the Lucavi. More its wounds opened. More it did not seem to care even as its ichor flowed down the claw.

Delita swung once again. His battered and cracked sword finally giving free and shattering uselessly. He'd accomplished naught with this whole ill-advised attack yet even still he bellowed his defiance as he swung hands gone bone-white under his gauntlets. Clanging uselessly and painfully against those legs.

All attention drawn low, he did not see its arm sweep down. Only know it when the left hand surrounded his head and pulled him up. Weight low by armor his neck stretched painfull as his head was pressured.

"All thy sins fall upon thee." So close to its hellish maw his skin revolted and felt wrong. "Karma."

The Punisher dropped him.

Unprepared he landed poorly, tripping on his feet and hitting the ground hard.

But that was all. No pox or subversion maligned him. Whatever spell he chanted failed.

Delita took step forward to rejoin the melee—his vision blinded mind recalled. Forced acquiring.

A ship?

His body moved, striking killing man in front of him.

Familiar this was. That ship in Lionel.

His chest burned! Stab of steel through him!

Seconds past and another man died.

Yet man prior now alive?

Again he set man to his end and again did he burn!

Specific, familiar. The strikes inflicted on foes return to him!

Before and before all men slain and his body rent asunder with each life taken!

Face of Argath beaten bloody, pulp no longer human.

His own pummeled behind helmet's protection.

Wiegraf's guard struck dead by arrow.

His shoulders pierced.

Milleuda's protector: a knife in the eye.

His vision blurred and vanished.

More dead men filled his body's pain.

'Til the first came.

Sword so sloppy at time yet so simple to take a life.

The world returned, vicious and cruel and all felling wounds fled.

But movement he was denied, though no stop spell clung to him. Every fiber of his being wept in pain, too tired to even cry. He crumbled into a hapless heap even as Zebbev continued its onslaught.

Its leg now struck closer, breaking shields of Templars and sometimes bone. Wiegraf the worst of it, a slip on stone saw his leg impaled. Alfredo had joined the melee, her sword severing its legs. But the thing brought its claw about and hurled her out of sight. Meliadoul drove her blade through the broken leg, shoving it deep within the Lucavi's lower body yet it still fought. With left hand it punched her, Loffrey soon after. None remained to bind it in melee, so its foul attention sought foe elsewhere.

Cletienne earned its ire with spell after spell and his wily teleports prevented any advanced.

So it countered with spell its own. Left hand to air and finger to the heavens it chanted: "The first beats of time. Big Bang."

Lightning, frail and pitiful fell from above.

But wound and pain as the simple bolt seared his chest plate to him.

Whatever foul wonder it was he remained conscious as his body tortured with the feel of a million ants running inside.

Muscles too tired to feel pain before regained its second wind to hurt him even more.

He felt the tears upon his cheeks.

He'd see Tietra and his parents soon.

"Delita…"

The one softness in this hell slide into vision's view. Gylda, bloodied worse than he. Her arms out, reaching, for him.

He couldn't respond.

"Cure." Word blanketed by blood and all gasps of life eroding.

His life restored.

Pain remained.

Hatred remained.

With all that he could muster he stood.

Zebbev advanced. The last threat remaining. Barich and his gun, still firing.

Delita moved. Each step taking the whole of his remaining life to go. He'd pay this interest in paradise.

Slowly he advanced.

Zebbev cornered the gun-man.

His left hand pulled went low, sweeping the Templar and dragging him up. Face down to face a demon's. Slur and spit erupted from the machinist's lips as he did everything in his power to stop the Lucavi. Delita's hearing too far ringing to understand.

"Shame, 'tis." Words that needed no soul. "Thy soul as vile as mine own yet thy body lacks suit. Thralldom your reward."

The tip of his right claw slowly, cut downwards. Shredding through the quality armor like swords through thin cloth.

Delita was close. Close enough to gaze upon all the wounds that more encompassed its body than unharmed flesh. Another few legs had broken or scarred and Meliadoul's sword still remained lodged.

If Zebbev cared as he tortured Barich, it did not show.

Whatever madness strove him onwards continued. His hands found purchase on knight sword and pulled it free.

Barich screamed as the giant crushing claw swallowed his head.

With a grace granted only by the Gods Delita leapt. Unsteady, but he landed upon the protrusion the legs chambered to.

He slid the sword up at the center of Zebbev's back. The tip sinking slowly into the Lucavi's back.

It still did not respond.

Delita pushed. But whatever divine intervention saw his leap succeed did not return. Arms powerless and flailing could not run the Lucavi through.

"Dammit." He mouthed the words but knew not if they were said.

"Be still pest, thy turn is next."

Like he'd let some demon end him.

Nothing else of strength came.

Everything gave and Delita slumped forward.

'Twas needed.

His body weight forced the sword through. To its guard the knight sword went.

Delita fell, seeing the weapon now piercing from the foe's front and back.

The Punisher tossed what was once Barich away. Its damming gaze fully upon the barely conscious Templar.

Claw raised high. The sword shook in its chest.

So much of its metal had been overcome with the deep blue blood. Was it truly immortal? No man could dare move with such vigor after drained of so much.

Delita's wounds were healed twice over and yet it all fell apart.

The sun glinted in an ugly fashion after hitting the red-blue-purple stained claw.

What a lousy way to die.

His hands groped for some final measure of defiance. Some magick sword or mayhap Barich's gun.

All he had were stones.

Sod it.

Whatever might remained within him hurled the stone at the Lucavi's head. His arm falling uselessly unto the melted plate.

It dinged uselessly off a horn.

Zebbev reared back in a way man would the deepest of laughs. An unnerving chorus splashing into the broken soul within. The sword in its chest bouncing around and adding new cuts it did not concern itself with.

But that victorious laughter cut itself short. A wave of a pleasant warm relief following the ice water before. Some more trick of a Lucavi.

"Impossible!" Its voice resonated in the first surprise of its return. "Flesh to last a thousand years lasts not one?!" The unsettling wrongness had quivered and quaked. Its focus on the speaker, not the listeners. "A thousand truths yet flood mine dying conscious. Oh my master I have yet failed thee again!"

That deep crimson light that once signaled its unholy birth now bid its destruction. Wrought free like blood yet washing over all in sight. Lucavi flesh consumed whole once again and banished from sight.

Faded from vision, no Punisher upon horizon.

Laughter would flee his lips if blood and sleep did had not taken it first.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Well, that was a fun Chapter to write. Though I'm somewhat wary of having a Lucavi speak so much. Ruins their, "mystique". Small note is I've made a change to the prior chapter so Casey and a nameless Templar wait on the beach. A question to all who read: Would be better to have Lucavi speak in italics?**

 **Spiritblade: Thank you for your lovely Review. I've changed over to "the Punisher" as per your suggestion and made edits to the previous Chapter. Condemner was just the _FFXII_ title.**

 **Thank you all for reading and have a fulfilling day.**


	41. Chapter 40: Trials

**Chapter 40: Trials**

The shore of Mullonde was a welcome relief after days of travel and danger. Ramza''d but slept four hours a day to ensure that Beowulf was never taken by Inquisitor knives each day. Even on ship he did not trust the judgemental Inquisition. Though they kept their space apart, he knew that the very moment Ser Cadmus was vulnerable knives would emerge from the dark.

"Finally," Isilud muttered as the ship drew into dock. He'd taken watch opposite him and the dark lines under his eyes were touched too deeply to ignore. "Let us get him to Lord Father and be done with it."

If either Templar awoke before week's end 'twould be a surprise.

Upon land messenger was sent to the Grand Master of their arrival. Celebrant Lucianada parted ways without so much as a glance. Something all the Templars were grateful and wary of. The Inquisitors followed after their leader to wherever they were quartered on the Isle.

Ser Cadmus was kept in holding under guard in a free room of the Templarate barracks. No words were exchanged between Gryphon and Templar as those who brought him in scattered to their rooms to make themselves presentable before their summons to the Grand Master's chamber.

Ramza had barely removed his armor before a knock and the announcement Lord Folmarv called for him came through. He hastily robed himself and made for the Grand Master's office.

Isilud, dressed much in shambles as he, barely reached the door before Ramza. The two friends exchanged nervous looks and and before entering the room.

It was much the same as it always was, save the Grand Master bare of Templar armor. Though, there was an odd smell of fish that trickled into Ramza's nose as they entered.

He must have let his confusion show, for the first words out of the Grand Master's mouth put the topic to the forefront. "I enjoy fishing, Templar Beoulve. We must all have our hobbies, yes?"

"Y-yes, ser."

The Grand Master gave him an odd stare. "You do have a hobby, do you not?"

"I would say that I do not, ser."

Lord Folmarv sighed in frustration. "This is not the time for a lecture on how best to use your leisure time, Templar Beoulve, but do consider as such afterwards. Knights who think solely of duty fatigue themselves into early graves."

"I will consider what you have said, ser." Never in his life did Ramza think such a conversation could ever have occurred.

"Good, now, to the matter at hand?"

The two younger Templars went over the basics, the uneventful trip, quiet meeting with Lord Zalbaag, and the preparations done to locate Gryphon Cadmus.

The assault was under Ramza's sole purview as he related the quick strike that nevertheless left Redford and two Inquisitors dead in combat against all the 'heretic' knights and criminals.

No name given for Fulke.

Yet when he retold his stand against the Celebrant's orders, Lord Folmarv did not take the given excuse so lightly. Though he expressed no words, a deep frown and stern glare of his coal-like eyes were enough.

Ramza stepped back to let Isilud parse the final part. His arrival, and the following disarming of the situation by offering they were under orders.

Lord Folmarv's eyes went alight before the end even reached and he slammed his hands on his desk as he rose. "You incompetent fools!" His roar would have stopped the tides! "Do you have any idea what you've done!?"

"I did as I was ordered," Isilud quickly answered.

"In mayhap the most buffoonish way possible!" Lord Folmarv sweeped his desk clear of the paperwork that always cluttered it. "You have set Templarate against Inquisition. You have divided this House for the life of one man!"

"Under orders." Ramza found his grounding. "Orders I was proud to say were right."

"Right holds many paths and this one sets but a footstep away from all the wrong ones."

"What would you have us do then, Lord Father?" asked Isilud.

"I do not invade your quarters and dress you for the day do I?" The odd question set aside the flames of anger for a moment. "All your training has proven folly." The Grand Master fell back into his chair. "Leave me. Remain in your quarters until you are summoned. You are suspended from outside activities until proper punishment is decided."

"But Lord Father—"

"Enough!" All the fury renewed hot enough to burn. "Keep your mouth closed lest a demotion is what you desire."

Any hint of resistance died hard on the forsaken face of Isilud. He offered a simple nod of understanding.

But 'twas not enough for Ramza. Clenching his fists, he said, "A good man may yet be saved."

"There is no further discussion here. Out." He held the same look of hardened steel that Lord Brother Dycedarg had upon scolding someone.

There was no arguing here.

"It was right."

Ramza and Isilud left.

The air outside practically ice compared to within.

"You should not have argued," said Isilud, breaking the silence of their walk back. "You may not see the sun before Virgo comes again."

"I have had my fill of the right thing being called wrong." Ramza, finally realizing his hands were still clenched, set them free. Relief flowed back into his palms. "

"We could have done something. Anything. We let the Inquisition run the whole thing. If we'd but gotten to Ser Cadmus earlier mayhap we'd have ended this without lives lost."

"He did not seem the type to share."

"Aye, but there were two of us to command compared to his one. Mayhap why Lord Father sent us as such a pair."

Ramza shook his head. "Why not send Alfredo or Loffrey then?"

"The Celebrant's eyes would follow them a good deal more closely."

'Twas a fair point, he gave nod to Isilud on that. "I would prefer if tests did not lie upon men's lives." Yet 'twas the world they worked in.

If Isilud held a response, he did not say it, and the two men walked in silence until their parting of ways. They exchanged farewells.

When Ramza returned to his room, drained by the encounter he fell upon his bed and sleep enveloped him instantly.

* * *

One morning, a week after his house arrest, a knock came to the door and he was finally given leave. To immediately prepare for the trial of Beowulf Cadmus.

He'd been given a set of tomes on the legal procedures he was about to be part of. The ceremonies, promptings and division of effort. It'd been the text he studied most during his light imprisonment, with an hour a night spent on other tomes when his mind ran over with frustration regarding the law. The understanding of arcane mysteries seemed so more able than

Otherwise, he kept in as best physical capability as he could manage. His meals were delivered, his used clothes taken and cleaned. No one who arrived or guarded him were interested in striking up a conversation, so Ramza doubled down on what he could accomplish. It was somewhat of a burden lifted after a deployment and the constant chatter and sent orders.

'Twas still a relief when the trial did come.

He was given a new set of robes as his final bit or preparation. It was exceptionally smooth and soft to the touch, assuredly it was silk, and similar in design to a white mage's robes, but with the torso, lower half and cuffs were set in the sky-blue akin to his tabard. The sleeves and hood remained white, while the whole of the outfit was tailored much tighter to the body than the loose and thick priest robes.

It was after a light lunch when he was finally summoned.

The air outside was refreshing, the sun shone ever brighter and having a face-to-face with another person was a welcome relief to nothing but quick knocks and short instructions barked at him. Even their blank faces did not bother him.

The swords at their side did, somewhat. But the lack of armor reassured him 'twas only a formality.

His little escort merged with another, Isilud's. The other Templar was dressed the same, (save the green to Ramza's blue) but with his hair cut a fingernail shorter than last Ramza remembered.

The two shared a smile before continuing onwards.

They met with more groups, each holding one of the other Templars involved with the Lesalia affair. Each looking exceedingly dire, and with good reason. The robes they wore were similar in base design, if apparently more uncomfortable if their shifting gave any indication. The whites held more of a bluish tint to them, and only the cuffs and lower skirt bore a different color. A red somewhat overlayed with that pale blue.

The seven witnesses were led out by twice their number in armed guards towards the Main Cathedral. A lone sentinel atop the Cathedral watched them pass within. Not another soul remained in sight as they marched within and down the halls. All the merriment ment for Virgo gone for dire deeds.

In halls unfamiliar to Ramza, and it seemed to most of the others from the looks they gave, their escorts broke them into two groups. Isilud and Ramza continued down while the enlisted were taken into a room they passed. The two Officers escorted into the room right next door, holding outside as they entered.

It was a small affair, only a few chairs, a low cupboard and two torches to provide light. A blonde man paced at the other end of the room, his head dipped downwards, not even noticing their entrance.

"Excuse us," said Isilud. "You are?"

The man nearly jumped at the sudden noise. "Ah, pardon me," he said, his voice tense and strained. "I was simply lost in thought." He walked over and offered his hand. "Elliot Esmour, at your service."

"Isilud Tengille, at yours." He shook.

"Ramza Beoulve, at yours." He shook as well. The man's grip was fair, but not particularly strong. 'Twas not a surprise.

"I shall be the defense representative in the upcoming Trial for Ser Cadmus, and your Templars." He smiled, but there was a hint of nervousness as he did. He was a thin man, only a hair taller than either of them and with a meticulously crafted black-and-red suit. He'd not like seen war, and yet now defended against the Inquisition. A man braver than most, in any case.

"Please, please take a seat," he offered the two of them. But both simply prefered to stand after being locked away for so long. "I'm here to go over the steps of this case and how we might bring the truth to light. I've already gone over this with Ser Cadmus and will be meeting with those under your joint command after this."

While Ramza had already learned, and recently at that, what was going to occur, having a guiding hand to add some reassurance would do wonders.

The Trial was to be presided over by three of the four heads of the most prominent Offices of the Church. Celebrant Zalmour and Grand Master Folmarv was assured to be there. Their division was as clear as a cloudless sky, so the difficulty came in persuading the third judge of Ser Cadmus's limited culpability in this matter. This was to be either Cardinal Delacroix, as liege-lord of Lionel and second of the Church as a whole, or the head of the Office of Magickal Aid and Relief whom Ramza had never met (to his knowledge).

But he had.

The Ward Priestess in charge of Delita's recovery, Cwengyth, was apparently the aforementioned head. Which, if he'd thought deeply enough about it, would have occurred to him much earlier.

So he suddenly prayed that his constant trips to the recovery ward to watch over Delita's recuperation hadn't eroded her opinion of him.

Following introductions, the witnesses to the crimes would be called, their testimony examined, with the three judges asking questions of their own when appropriate. When all the questions finished, there would be a brief respite for the judges to confer before the final ruling would be given out.

Ramza and Isilud went over their own experiences in Lesalia and, as Esmour said, "kept their stories true".

Esmour thanked them and departed, saying they would receive instructions soon enough. And then he was off to the enlisted.

"Well," Isilud said with a look of concern, "he seems a tad nervous."

"I rather think we're the odd ones for being so flippant about being between a rivalry of Inquisition. and Templarate."

"Ha, agreed."

The two spent their free time filling each other in on what occurred during their imprisonment. Which, hardly a surprise, was much the same for both. Save the books read and Isilud requesting a trim of his hair.

Mayhap Ramza should do the latter at one point.

But a knock at the door and they were back at being transported elsewhere.

Their destination a door, and more instructions. Seating arrangements and announcements.

Ramza the first, stepping into the large room, well-lit by sun and torch. "Presenting Ser Ramza Beoulve; Officer of the Templarate." The announcer to his left boomed.

Stares met him as he moved forward aside rows of empty benches (a dozen in total, six on each side) to take bench on the right behind Esmour seated at a table. The other Templars sat with him, opposite the Inquisition on the other wall, with one man looking particularly irate at the situation. Ser Cadmus, garbed in a sleeveless green tunic and cuff-less matching pants, was chained to a stand in between both sides. A half-dozen red-caped bailiffs armed with swords stood watch, paced evenly around the room.

"Presenting Ser Isilud Tengille; Officer of the Templarate." Much as he did, Isilud came and sat beside.

The doors to the chamber closed as the announcer made way to the room's head. A large podium dominated the floor beneath the banners of the church.

"Rise." Everyone did so. The door behind the announcer opened. "Introducing, His Lordship, Folmarv Tengille of the Church of Glabados of Mullonde; Grand Master of the Holy Knights Templar." The robes he wore white with shoulders purple.

"Introducing, His Excellency, The Most Revered Zalmour Luciana, Celebrant of the Church of Glabados of Mullonde; Head of the Holy Office of the Inquisition." Much like Lord Folmarv but with green to his shoulders.

"Introducing, Her Excellency, The Most Revered Cassandra Cwengyth, Celebrant of the Church of Glabados of Mullonde; Head of the Holy Office of Magickal Aid and Relief for the Weary Masses." Her shoulders a most ruby red.

Each of the Officiants took their seats in turn: Folmarv closer to his Templars, Zalmour to his men and Cwengyth, looking tired and annoyed already, between.

"You may now be seated," she said and everyone did. Ramza spared a bit of wonder that he hadn't realized how close she was to the seat of the High Confessor if she was introduced equal to Zalmour.

"We are here this day," she continued, holding up a parchment close to her face, "to discern the truth of the matter regarding the crimes by which one, Captain Beowulf Cadmus of the Gryphon Knights of Lionel, stands accused. These include, but are not limited to: heresy, resisting Church authority, resisting arrest by Knights Templar, kidnapping, forbidden magicks, injury of officers of the Inquisition, killing of officers of the Inquisition, injury of Templars, killing of Templars, subversive tendencies to the Gryphon Knights, and a good deal many more crimes directed towards the Crown of Ivalice."

Ramza was exceedingly gladdened to have never considered an occupation in law.

"What is it that you plead to these charges?"

"I confess guilt to several, but proclaim innocence for most. I am no heretic, that I assure everyone here." He was remarkably calm for the predicament. Mayhap he thought Ramza would rashly act again.

"So I have been informed." She briefly spared a glance at the men to her sides. "Have you words of who would cast doubt on your loyalties?"

"I have certainty, Your Excellency." He accompanied his words with a nod. "Celebrant Bremondt Freitberg is the true perpetrator of the crimes by which I am accused."

Like lightning the irate-looking Inquisitor sprung from his seat. "Hold your tongue you heretic!" his words thundered.

"Settle down, Celebrant."

"I will not!" the man continued, absolutely livid. "I will not stand idly by while a heretic dares to slander my honor and integrity!"

So he was the culprit? A large-set man in purple robes, with a mustache and long, wavy hair ongoing gray from brown. He did not look all that threatening, which, mayhap, be why Beowulf let the man close enough to instigate the whole dire situation in the first place.

"Then I would highly suggest the prosecution lead with you, Celebrant," she said. "But until it is your place to say, keep to your bench. Another outburst and I shall request your removal until summoned." All three judges gave their nods of consent.

"I humbly accept your ruling, Your Excellency," But his face betrayed the fury he felt.

The court ordered itself back as Esmour arose to begin questioning Ser Cadmus. It came across as much as what Ramza heard before: The Celebrant was responsible, his beloved, now given the name Reis Dueler, turned into a dragon by Freitberg's magicks and the subsequent raid by the Inquisition that lost him sight of his now dragon fiancée.

The opposition gave their own counter, but Beowulf's story kept true. No judge presented questions.

It was finally when Celebrant Freitberg was called to testify that Ramza's attention returned to a well-honed edge.

"Ladies and gentlemen of this court," he began. "I assure you, all the words spouted by this criminal are naught but lies to pass the blame of crimes that rest upon his head unto mine own. The records I have brought, long show that I have written suspicious of this man's motives and and informed multiple sources of the darkness that lay within his heart. House Cadmus is beholden to the same "cult" by which I am accused of collaborating with. His training in magickal arts and these ancient rites place a burden of proof upon his capabilities of inducing both a mental fugue upon Lady Dueler and the horrid dragon manifestation he inflicted upon her as the peak of his heresy."

"You consider it magick that your gold and jewels could not buy her love, Bremondt?" said Ser Cadmus. "Love is not such a thing for barter."

"Hold your tongue you heretic!"

"Hold the both of you!" Celebrant Zalmour settled the match. "Celebrant Freitberg I have gone twice over the evidence you have seen recently fit to reveal. Records years prior only now revealed cast a doubt on their authenticity."

"Your Excellency, I would but summon the men I gave my recommendations to if I did not think most their tongues bound by magick and gil of the former-Ser Cadmus. We know already knights that held themselves to his descent into confirmed heresy."

"And you've no concern for good men's lives wasted by your delusions."

Lord Folmarv spared a quick glare at the Gryphon. "Speak out of turn Ser Cadmus once more and you will not speak again." The knight responded with a bitter nod.

"You besmirch the honor of a great deal many people, Celebrant," said Zalmour.

"We see how deep a rot runs with Cadmus here. How long have we lent blind eye to Church corruption? This must stop, and let Cadmus be the start."

Similar enough to what the High Confessor once told Ramza so many months ago. Were his mind not already set this man's words may have yet swayed him some.

"I would devote all the resources at my disposal to such."

And it so quickly became a bribe.

"We shall see."

Celebrant Freitberg, having said his peace, was settled back down. Next came the Inquisitors, the Templars. Isilud, and Ramza. Nothing but relaying the events of Leslaia over and over again. A few questions here and there, but nothing that broke the situation open.

Ramza returned to his seat, frustrated that he could not do more. Isilud and even O'Neal sharing his sentiments with grimaces.

No, there had to be something more he could do. He rose—but all attention was snapped to the door as it was kicked open. Shouts broke out but Ramza's eyes fell upon the blonde woman in a dress running inside, and hugging Beowulf.

"Reis!" he said, as if Saint Ajora had walked in the doors. "You're alright!"

"Beowulf!" he buried herself deep in his shackled arms without care of the bailiffs advancing on her.

"How is this possible?" Beowulf voiced the question held by all.

"I would put the answer to that." The even tone of Loffrey's voice drew all focus unto him as he strode into the room (two irritable guards behind him). His usual hooded tabard over an unusual set of brown trousers and white tunic. "The Gods willed us to meet upon my return trip to Mullonde."

"N-no!" cried Celebrant Freitberg. "T-there is only the work of devils here! You conspire with this heretic!" He looked, pleaded towards the bench! "Your Excellencies, pry Lady Dueler away from this heretic's reaches before he veils her eyes with his dark magicks once more!"

Celebrant Cwengyth looked down at the cowering man. "If there were any spell cast upon this young lady I would sense it for certain. If such a thing happens I shall have her removed post-haste."

"Lady Dueller," went Lord Folmarv. "If you would regale us with your story?"

"She is confused!" Bremondt ignored everyone else. "Mislead and lied and, and, and threatened!" He pointed an accusatory finger at Loffrey. "This man clearly works in tandem with the heretic! For none other but the caster would know how to undo such a curse! Told to, to this monster who holds some leverage over her."

This was almost pitiful.

"I repeat the words of my testimony: the auracite of Cancer would banish the curse you placed on her."

"As it has," said Reis.

"Nonsense!" rejected the Celebrant. "You may well say Saint Ajora did so!"

"The wonder of auracite is the will of Saint Ajora, is it not?" she said. "The curse you aimed at Beowulf that I took instead was broken by Cancer. I assure each and every person of this court."

The Celebrant shook his head. "Where is this auracite then? I see naught but a man of dubious intent!"

Loffrey snorted. "I thought to present this to His Holiness himself, but if it would but quiet your flapping…" His hand dipped into his surcoat and produced a deep red gemstone that resembled a crab's claw. He held it aloft as he walked further inside and Ramza's eyes beheld the symbol of Cancer inscribed within.

A low, humble silence overtook the room as they basked in one of the most holy artefacts of Ivalice.

Save one, desperate, man.

"L-lies…" The sad fool would not accept it. "T-that is just some ruby you besmirched… What impossible coincidence that he beheld what you claim needed!"

Loffrey offered no reply, save returning Cancer to the holding of his surcoat.

Reis responded, "Whilst I wandered, my mind impaired and my body no longer my own, I felt a calling. I knew not what it was 'til I came upon Ser Loffrey and his knights. I saw ruby-red light from his hands. Divine light that did undo the dragon's curse on my flesh."

"A trick, a lie—misdirection!" Why had the judges not silenced him? "A band of charlatans not willing to stand testimony."

"Auracite is not so easily retrieved," said Loffrey reaching the judges. "My Templars remain bedridden from the foeman we encountered. If Her Excellency would attend to them whence this Trial ends I would be most grateful." And Lord Folmarv repeated as well.

Ramza shifted uneasily at the news. Was Delita among them?

"Lady Dueller," Cwengyth said. "Do you hold your words to be true, under the watch of Saint Ajora and by the will of the High Father?"

"I do."

"I would have you repeat your experience."

And she did. Each word sending Celebrant Freitberg further into a quivering, impotent mess. Ramza actually felt some pity for the man by the end of it. Even buried under all the guilt of his deeds.

But her final words swayed the judges wholly. Even Celebrant Zalmour was nodding in agreement with her. He rose his voice, "In light of Lady Dueller's new account, I put forward the motion to dismiss the charges of heresy leveled at Ser Beowulf Cadmus." The other two judges added their agreements. "However, the blood that has been spilled requires restitution. Best not convene a court again when the guilty party already stands before us."

"No!" Bremondt's eyes went wild like a monster.

"Bailiffs, release Ser Cadmus and place Celebrant Freitberg upon the stand."

The guards moved to their new orders. Two to Beowulf, two to the Celebrant.

"Unhand me!" the purple-robed man shouted. "I am a Celebrant you glorified peasant! The heretic is there! He is the mastermind of this whole scenario!"

"Celebrant Freitberg that is enough," said Zalmour. "Maintain at least some decorum."

"N-no I am innocent it is… it is you all who belong in chains! 'Tis I who remain the only holy man left in this room. You're all deceived by the words of that vagrant!" His struggles intensified and he nearly shook the guards off.

Ramza looked to Lord Folmarv, but the Grand Master gave no order to lend aid.

The bailiffs forced him to his knees. His struggles ceased, but his words did not. "P-power of the Dark…"

"Gag him!" yelled Reis.

"Heed my call."

The earth shook at his words. A whirlpool of magick that focused upon the Celebrant as unsteady footing knocked the standing to their knees.

Blinding bolt of lightning struck the Celebrant and when vision returned, Bremondt, the bailiffs and Inquisitors nearby had all vanished. A dragon, scales a pale black stood in place.

Ramza blinked a few times, but no, that had just happened.

Rearing itself back, it stood twice the height of man before it crashed down and destroyed the table nearby. Its wings flexed as the four-legged monster _spoke_ :

"If earthly bliss escapes my grasp than it shall yours as well!" The Celebrant's voice. Deep, growling and distorted yet his. "Die, Beowulf!"

The dragon rushed forward!

To the man everyone still remaining acted.

Ramza leapt forward, gathering magick into his fist for an aurablast.

Templars to his right took to magick if they could.

The Bailiffs that remained drew their swords (the pale silver of mythril). They moved, positioning two between dragon and prisoner.

Chants came from the lips of judges as they worked their magicks.

Order came from Grand Master, "Bring reinforcements!" and the guard closest to door ran.

Loffrey muttered something as he stepped back.

Reis stood strong, even as the dragon charged at her. Even as still-chained Beowulf pleaded her depart.

Ramza's aurablast was unleashed. The invisible wave of force struck the eye, moved the head, but did not stop the run.

Bailiffs swung their swords.

The dragon's jaws snapped one blade as the other drew dark blood from neck. His wings beat and sent both bailiffs flying, sans weapons. Mythril swords clattered to the ground.

Only Reis remained between dragon and prisoner.

Ramza ran but there was no chance of intercepting this.

The dragon roared, reared back a fearsome talon brought above. "I will have your flesh living or dead!"

Beowulf attempted to push her away.

Reis unleashed some manner of magick flames that engulfed the body of the dark dragon. It seared its wound shut as its poor balance turned against it and the great beast fell upon its back.

"What did you do?" asked Beowulf in stunned disbelief.

The only man who had the leisure to do so.

Ramza reached the closest fallen sword, taking it in hand and swung it about to shatter the chains binding Ser Cadmus.

The Gryphon Knight reacted with great alacrity and pulled free the other fallen sword.

The last Bailiff on foot arrived to them while the dark dragon flipped itself upright.

Magick spells fell upon them, the boons granted by Celebrant judges. Protect and shell in powerful measure.

Black magick struck in force, lightning, fire and ice rained on the dark dragon. Its body slowly tore apart by the constant storm of magicks yet it continued to endure. What misplaced ferocity.

"We've no need to confront him directly," said Beowulf. "Let us draw him about to let magicks tear him apart."

Even a whiff of fire, if it could do such, would set these robes aflame. "Agreed."

"Die!"

It could!

A gout of flame emerged from its gullet as the dragon's enemies fell back from its wrath. The shell of white magick offered some protection but spits of flame burned through even at breaths edge. His robe caught fire and he beat it furiously to put it out.

He was well the worst of those besieged by the flames. The others seemingly untouched.

Their retreat had pushed them close to Isilud, who led a weaponless defense of the mages among the Templars. The room was simply too small to fight in. With a turn of its head the dragon could breathe over the judges.

Foul luck its ire turned solely on them.

Where were those reinforcements!?

"Isilud," said Ramza, "take its flank."

"I am going to have a very stern series of words with you about taking Dragoon training when this ends," the Nightblade grimly replied.

"I look forward to it." Ramza handed his sword over to the other Templar. His fists would be enough. "Quick spells, quick attacks, let Isilud take up position before we focus hardest."

"Best to wait for reinforcements," the bailiff spoke. "Those claws would tear us apart."

The dragon's roar sent any desire to wait aside as it went into a run straight at them.

Isilud took to the limited room above he could. Catching the dragon's attention in the process. Its head contorted upwards, greedy and hungry for another kill with jaws pried full.

Ramza loosed a quick aurablast. This time to success, as the dragon's maw was punched close the second before Isilud landed his foot upon its face and kicked away to the dragon's other side.

It was surrounded on all four if its sides, even if the judges and Loffrey held no weapons their own. Their mere presence would open new opportunities for attacks if the dragon divided its attention. The Celebrant's tactics to the point did not seem a seasoned veteran.

The dragon reared about to face the new threat to its behind, et it allowed Ramza's side to dart in, and strike at its now exposed back. Ramza's fists and the swords of Beowulf and bailiff drew blood and bruise. A sudden lash of its tail caught Ramza's side, knocking the wind out of him and forcing a retreat as the dragon's maw came back around.

Isilud struck as the dragon exposed itself and its long neck snapped around. Despite the direction of its eyes, the tail did not find purchase against the Nightblade. So again it breathed flames from within. No shell of magick warded the Templar who fell back, scorched and green robes burning.

They'd managed a number of cuts through its scales but even with dark blood flowing out the creature seemed to lose no momentum.

Another volley of spells assailed the dragon. Its movements faltered under the withering storm yet it still stood. Aurablast and some manner of magick sword spell from Beowulf followed after. The fist energy wasted like the first and the grayish malaise seemingly accomplishing naught.

The dark dragon quickly snapped forward and breath of lightning bolted out of its mouth.

To be countered and ineffective by Lady Reis doing the same.

The dragon's tiny little eyes expressed shock at the sight.

Others as well but Ramza was already moving to take advantage of their new opportunity.

He rolled forward and sprung to his feet. (Green light in the distance healing Isilud.)

The dragon was too slow to react, and Ramza unleashed a fearsome pummel into its right eye. As damaging for the dragon as its was for the man. Weakened as he was the scales were hard as steel and Ramza's fists bled by the time he duck and dove to dodge the claw that came to kill.

But he'd done work and the right eye was swollen and nearly blind. If at least because of Ramza's blood stinging it.

A sign for Isilud to strike. The Nightblade landed on dragon's back, stabbing his sword half to the crossguard. He leapt forwards and landed next to Ramza, the green robes burned halfway to useless. Their flanking advantage was gone but the roars of pain from the dragon were an oddly welcome exchange.

It attempted to rip the sword away with its jaws but Isilud's positioning had been perfect. The guard was a hair's width away from being pulled free.

The painful spasms did not help either.

But the dragon's thrashing about made it too difficult to approach in melee anymore. Black magick, again, provided the bulk of their offense as the dark dragon was bathed in damaging magicks.

It did not die.

It'd been victim of a dozen powerful black magicks and yet it still retained life. The dragon clawed against the ground as it prepared for another breath.

There was no way to avoid it.

Someone kicked the Templar-side table over and every ducked behind it. Whatever cover they could muster.

A frozen gust overwhelmed Ramza's back replaced by a burning sensation as the ice breath melted away in an instant. His robe was damp, surely slick with water and blood on his back. It clung painfully as he stood to face the dragon again.

The table had crumbled away but the bulwark of flesh had protected half the huddled Templars.

Isilud, Beowulf, Lambert and the bailiff were struggling in much the same vein. The damage to their back was considerable.

Entirely why Ramza used a quick burst of chakra to mend what wounds he could. Some of his flesh crawled, and remained painfully numb, but 'twas the best he could manage.

Zalmour and Cwengyth helped a great deal more as their white magicks graced them. His back remained sore and fatigued, and his hands were raw enough that sweat still irritated him, but 'twas a substantial improvement.

The advantage was well within their favor if whatever time magicks that banished the Inquisitors and bailiffs did not resurface. The dragon's vigor kept it moving but its movements were fatigued and slow. Its attempt to retain a stance faltered and one leg seemed to drag uselessly as it came at them once again.

Surprise had worked once…

Ramza ran at the dragon. The right eye was still partially blind. He took that approach. Steps in a run from behind him.

The dragon had to twist his head to follow him. It raised claw as Ramza approached.

He dove under it!

The dark dragon slammed down, caught him, and pinned him against the floor. Ramza gasped in pain and looked up to see the dragon's jaws open wide—fire within gathering and mad eye staring at the kill!

Sword plunged into its left eye. Head snapped back from the stab and point forced through other eye.

Its claw tore bloody scrape through Ramza's chest as it thrashed against attacker. Body after body collided into the beast and knocked it to the side. Sword impaled snapped apart as the weight pushed upon it.

Ramza rolled to his feet, hand clutching his shredded chest. Isilud and the bailiff buried their mythril swords to the guards in the dragon's underbelly. It moaned pitifully as it desperately tried to pitch itself back upwards. Blood pooling beneath made it much impossible.

"Reis…" it—he gasped out. Pained and strained. "You… belong… to me…!"

The woman herself looked down at the pathetic, dying dragon-man. Her face a mix of sad anger.

Beowulf placed his hand on her bare shoulders. "Reis belongs to no one."

It wheezed one last time before falling dead completely. (Though a few more stabs were added to encourage that.)

Ramza turned around. Lord Folmarv, Zalmour and Cwengyth were moving to the center of the room. Loffrey remained near the doors (and the additional guards came far too late). The Templars just looked on in some sort of confusion. Esmour stared blankly at the scene.

This whole situation was as surprising as the talk of hobbies earlier.

A quick cast of cure set his chest mended. His robes now bloodied red, one among many.

"More lives lost upon this gods-forsaken tragedy," said Zalmour, somber. "Ser Cadmus, take this how you will, but I offer my apologies as both a man wrong and as the Head of the Holy Office of the Inquisition."

Beowulf remained too stunned by the sudden situation to reply.

"The records of your men will, of course, be cleared of any wrongdoing, as well as recompense offered to surviving family paid from my own personal accounts."

Was this an earnest amends? Or simply covering himself? Ramza knew the Inquisitor too poorly to judge for certain, but the latter felt more likely.

"I…" said Beowulf, "accept your attempts, Your Excellency." The Gryphon turned back, and faced Ramza, Isilud and all the Templars. "I must offer my thanks to the lot of you. We would not be here if you'd not risked reputation and life in Lesalia. Or name." Ramza bristled at the lie of "Lugria" to the man in Warjilis.

"Mine as well," Lady Reis added. "And extend it to Ser Loffrey as well."

"Aye."

The solemn Templar only offered a nod. "There's other matters to concern yourselves with," he said. "Folmarv, Cewngyth, Isilud, Ramza, you're needed in the medical ward."

"Say no more," she said.

Whatever occurred was painful enough that even Meliadoul had arrived? Gods, what had happened to Delita now?

Lord Folmarv grabbed one of the late-coming guards by the shoulder and said, "Send word to the High Confessor that I grant permission for an emergency audience with Loffrey."

Such a rare and powerful use of authority near-paralyzed the man. But he, eventually, ran off with a numb "yes ser".

So that left the other Templars and the woman Celebrant to run off to the infirmary ward.

* * *

The High Confessor gazed ever reverently into the divine depths of the auracite in his hand. Scorpio, Capricorn, Gemini, Leo, Pisces, Aries, Libra, and now Cancer. Palamedes claimed another in Ebon Eye possession and Virgo remained with the Princess at Orbonne Monastery. Only two stones eluded them. A new rule was closer than ever before.

The details of its acquisition, Loffrey had remained reserved about until Folmarv had arrived. Whatever manner of terror beset the stone's defense had even rattled the stoic-man to refuse console. Though he did inform him passing of the outcome of the Trial. Indeed, a frightful thing to have heresy so close to the upper echelons.

It was well enough time for the High Confessor to weight whom to bestow the stone upon. A number of people presented themselves as viable candidates. Cletienne, who had humbly given consent to Marquis Elmdore to receive Gemini. Meliadoul, and her convictions. Always loyal Alfredo, or the repentant Claudino? Barich for his keen eye in gathering the leverage over Dycedarg Beoulve or mayhap Palamedes for finding two stones himself. Linnet was dependable, and kept the affairs of Bervenia in excellent order. Or mayhap, offering it to the young Beoulve to strengthen his resolve in the Church's ways.

A knock came to the door and the High Confessor bid him "enter".

Folmarv walked into the small room. A secluded little place for secret meetings such as these without the chance of unneeded ears overhearing. Only a few cushioned chairs and a dusty old wardrobe larger than a man sat here. Both doors led to halls left unguarded to avoid unwanted ears.

"What happened?" said Folmarv his voice hard, yet tired.

"I thought it the better to inform the both of you at once," said Loffrey. "I shall belay our journey forth and back, you have seen and heard Lady Reis's tale yourself."

"Do not delay, Loffrey," Folmarv near-glared at the man. "My daughter aches away with injuries I've only seen of the oldest veterans. This was no ambush of Ebon Eye as others told."

"Indeed," Loffrey grimaced as he said, "what we encountered chills the blood, violates the flesh and makes the most stout man's knees go weak. Templars Arnald, Ivan, and Isleton fell in our acquisition. Officers Claudino Brais and Barich Fendsor as well."

By the Gods, had Ordallia returned?

"What felled us was first a construct of the Cataclysm, a man of metal that no spell could end. It alone slew three Templars and put Claudino at death's edge."

"For what purpose did you not retreat from such a creature?" Folmarv hissed.

"Auracite," Loffrey pointed at the stone the High Confessor still held. "Barich informed us such a thing could only be willed to move by a power most high."

Marcel stared once more into the blood-red ruby. "They died well then."

"Until a horror from our darkest nightmares formed." Simply recalling such perturbed the stone-faced man. "Lucavi."

From his deepest depths that was not the answer the High Confessor could ever fathom. The elite of the Ebon Eye, the vengeance of Cidolfus, Dycedarg turning against them, a secret ambush of renewed Ordallian aggression or the single greatest procession of monsters in Ivalician history. Not once did such a dread thought form. Not even the smallest point would he have said that. It all rushed forward, in one word: "What?"

"Were my own eyes not bear witness I would speak much the same," said Loffrey. "Yet I bare my scars, as do the Templars I commanded. Alfredo may yet never walk again, Wiegraf now lacks a leg, Herial has mythril melted into his flesh. I assure you, on all that I am, that what we encountered was Lucavi. If you think I claim false, I offer my life as my word. But the Lucavi walk this Ivalice once more."

No… that was impossible…

"How?" asked Folmarv.

"I may only fathom that the construct we bested in truth a seal of sorts upon the fiend. When we put it to ruin, we unleashed the foul thing. And..." He trailed off, fearful of his following words. "And, the thing took Claudino's body for its own."

"What do you mean?"

"I only offer what I saw. As he lay dying Claudino made pact with voice unseen. By light as red as blood his body was enveloped, and he became unholy creature. Its voice spoke not to ears but to the soul. Each word ice in veins and its power unfathomable."

"But banishable," Folmarv grimmly said. "They can be beaten."

"Herial dealt the final blow, whilst the remainder of us lay helpless from wounds sustained. The Zodiac Stone glowed after, sealing the vile thing away once more."

"Of course holy auracite can banish the demons," Marcel muttered. "More than ever we are shown the righteousness of our cause."

"We must consolidate our position immediately," said Folmarv. "Send word to Lord Zalbaag and Marquis Elmdore of the dire situation."

"No."

"Pardon?" Folmarv gasped in surprise at the refusal.

"We cannot let tales of Lucavi returning spread," said Marcel. He would not be the High Confessor to have the Lucavi return.

Folmarv's face twisted into grim defiance. "Your Holiness, I beg you reconsider. If our best cannot but limp away from one what shall we do if two? A dozen? All of Ivalice must be made wary such devilry is afoot."

"And tell a thousand men hungry for power it is there for the taking!?" roared the High Confessor catching both other men off guard. "Men like Dycedarg, Bestrald or Druksmald who would sell their souls and thousands of others for more power? They would be Lucavi within the day."

"I understand your concerns, Your Holiness," said Folmarv. "You have trusted Marquis Elmdore and Lord Zalbaag as Braves, we may yet trust them as this, their very mission from the Gods itself."

"We now naught how Lucavi return to our land, Grand Master. Spreading insidious panic would weaken our position moving forward."

The two Templars blinked in surprise. The Grand Master being the first to speak. "Your Holiness," he said, "surely you cannot consider moving forward in light of this new threat?"

"All the more reason we should," the High Confessor replied. "Or would you prefer a madwoman like Louveria to retain her reign when Lucavi walk the earth? This may well be her doing!" Yes, yes, it suddenly came to place. Who else but such a tyrant could consort with such beings? "'Tis the Gods' wills that this has come to pass."

"The Gods' wills?" Folmarv stared, mouth agape. "Men are dead and the Lucavi return!"

"Claudino's death has shown us the way," the High Confessor stressed.

"He was absolved by your very words, Your Holiness," Folmarv sourly said.

"And by what covenant that Lucavi care for the Gods' forgiveness? 'Twas still Claudino's hands that slew unarmed men, women and children in the Fifty Years' War. Eastern Sky he was no longer but his soul fouled enough for such insidious propagation or lest his body remain clear of such influence."

Loffrey grimly said, "Then much of us remain at risk as well."

"You know well the signs of such, do not fall prey to demon's seduction. You are Templars, you are strong."

"We are few," said Folmarv. "Too few. Those who can be trusted with this number not even ten."

"And a third of those shall find it difficult to fight," said Loffrey. "Palamedes, Wulfram and the spy did not encounter the demon, yet we must trust them. Herial understands the weight of the situation. His and Beoulve's ally falls within the same situation, and becomes a hostage should their allegiance waver."

"Whom?" asked the High Confessor.

"A white mage," said Folmarv. "She helps tend to the injured in the ward."

"We would not have survived without her," said Loffrey.

The Gods' wills indeed. Marcel counted over the available manpower and came to a conclusion. "We shall put more stock in Herial over Beoulve then."

This took Loffrey a bit back, but the Grand Master had suggested it after the Lesalia situation. Succeeding in proving Ser Beowulf's innocence was admirable, but the blunt matter did not serve them going forward. Trading short-term instability for long term gain was always the plan with the young Beoulve, but the changing situation meant they could no longer coddle him. A pity, to waste so much time and talent on him then.

"I shall have him take over drill instructor status until Alfredo recovers," said Folmarv. "Herial shall require a more advanced regime if he is to be granted greater status."

"Palamedes would be best," offered Loffrey. "They shall work in tandem with the Blackrams."

"See that it is done," the High Confessor ordered. "I will safeguard Cancer upon my person until the time is right." The two Templars nodded at the decision. He would need to send missive to Alphonse as well. "Folmarv, how well do Cidolfus's eyes turn?"

"I've much of them identified, a few promising their faith is ours. Lies, of course, but we let them see what we want."

The blunder with the Lord Commander of the Southern Sky could yet be turned to their advantage. "What of Zalmour now?"

"He is as annoyed with Beoulve's childish stubbornness as we are," Folmarv dourly said.

The effort to mend the rift of Inquisition and Templarate gone awry so easily. Zalmour's proposal had been so sound, but young Beoulve had failed the trial set before him.

"We should have sent a more veteran Officer with them."

Yet doing so would have proven disastrous in light of the… Lucavi.

"We move forward, as we have always done," said Marcel. So many difficulties in intrigue. The stress of this may yet see him in Paradise before Lions went to war. If only they were not beholden to Dycedarg Beoulve's delaying. They could do naught but prepare for when he made his assassination attempt on the Princess. Any prodding would just arouse suspicions they did not need more of. No, a year after the King's passing. That was the goal. May his body hold for that long.

"I am tired," he said. "Leave me." The details could come later.

"At once, Your Holiness."

The two men bowed and left.

But he was not alone.

The door to the wardrobe opened and the slim woman hiding inside stepped out (closing it behind her). She knelt before the High Confessor.

"Do his words hold weight?"

"Yes, Your Holiness," she replied without a moment's hesitation.

"You did not see it."

"I can feign imagine anything save Lucavi that could accomplish such carnage."

The High Confessor let a rare sigh out in front of another person. This would be either the greatest accomplishment of his life, or the final act of it. "Continue to watch over Herial. But you may drop the front if you desire."

"I have grown rather attached to 'Casey'," she mused. "But I shall be Valmafra Lenande again if that is what you command, Your Holiness."

"Let him in, slowly, but surely," he ordered. "But if his aims turn against ours do not hesitate to silence him."

"Yes, Your Holiness."

* * *

 **Author's Notes: I really should have split this, or parsed it down or just outright excised the battle or something. This took far, far too long, and I apologize. Whatever excuse I make does not pardon my lateness.**

 **Eating Upside Down: Well, uh, wow, that's a whole lotta Review right there, so, thank you for that. Since my reply would be so long I've a mind to just answer in a Private Message but I also think I should show the answer to all my readers so...**

 **The "post game" stuff being added in was an attempt at fleshing out some of the Church workings by bringing in Beowulf. Showing off him as the Gryphon Knight Captain since the timeline for his branding a heretic is vague in-game. Yes, there is a lack of Ramza presence in those Chapters that I only now realize. Most of it was an attempt more at worldbuilding and preparation for later, but it's also led to a significant word bloat. Some of it could do with excising (Nightblades, for sure). I thought to make Meliadoul's adventure to earn care, but seems I failed. Unfortunate.  
**

 **Gods, that is... Yes, that is a remarkable oversight on my part, thank you for pointing it out. I've since made some more edits to the Prologue to set the time difference between it and Chapter 1. The Prologue starts one year after Chapter 1. I will also be going back to make some edits for months so it's clearer for everyone. Having the Ivalician Calender constantly open meant it never occurred to me just how these should be presented to the reader.**

 **This is essentially the Act One for _Templar Beoulve_. In canon, Ramza becomes jaded and apathetic until Delita's reappearance sparks his old honor. Here, he meets with Delita much earlier, and because of Church influence, so he's had first-hand experience with how concerned they are for the common man. So he's recovered from Ziekden swifter, yet with his own wariness now brought on by the lose of faith in his Lord Brothers, the Inquisition and Delita's new concerns.**

 **I'll freely admit I'm bad at choosing tags. I'll have those fixed up according to your suggestions when this Chapter goes to post.**

 **There's always going to be some crisis going on somewhere (multiple peasant uprising is a constant source of grief in the game backstory). Some of the Church's difficulties are attributed to Ramza's joining, short-term instability for the long term advantage of having such a prestigious name fully attached to them in the future. Some things couldn't possibly be predicted (Gaffgarion overhearing Loffrey and Wiegraf). Directly challenging Cid however, yeah, that's well too incompetent. Folmarv was running ragged and high on religious fever, but they moved to turn it their advantage as best they could. Internal strife is somewhat in-line with the game. There were, by the end of it, five different Church factions competing with each other at least.**

 **I am gladdened you enjoyed it even over all the flaws you've mentioned. While this is obviously not a "soon" chapter, I've tried to take most of your criticisms into account when writing it.**

 **Thank you two new Favorites and three new Follows. Thank you all for reading and have a well-rested day.**


	42. Chapter 41: To Orbonne

**Chapter 41: To Orbonne**

"Officer Ramza, the Grand Master requests you in his office."

"I see, thank you Templar Geffords, I shall meet him at once."

Was he finally to have an actual command once again? He left the training courtyard, his home for the past six months. If Delita had not insisted he stay, he would have departed well before the onset of the unusually warm winter. He joined to make a difference, not meander pointlessly barking drills to Knights, or finally learning where all the paperwork accosting the Grand Master came from, as he now wrote half of it.

He nodded to every Templar that crossed his path before he finally reached the door, knocking and entering with permission.

The room was the same as ever, small, filled with work to do, the Grand Master at his desk and plenty of paperwork upon it.

But Delita stood there, a smile on his face.

"Delita!" Ramza said mayhap too loud. "'Tis good to see you once more."

"You as well, my friend." The two of them clasped hands in friendship.

His friend stood ever straighter, more confident than he'd ever seen before. The new armor aiding in that. A splendor of golden brighter than his Officer's own. Plate, all of it, covered his legs to the knees, arms full and shoulders covered with pauldrons large as a head. His chest garbed over by a striking bright red jerkin.

"It's a good look for you," Ramza complimented. Delita'd informed him he was undergoing Holy Knight training last they met and this armor certainly had the glory for it.

"Wait until you see yours."

Now that was curious indeed.

Lord Folmarv snapped them to attention before Ramza could inquire. "Templar Beoulve, you've been called here to make amends for your poor handling of Lesalia."

'Twas not a mistake.

"You've done fair these past months in light of Alfredo's absence, and Herial swears he will not undertake this without your aid."

It sounded like they were beheld to Delita's will... What precisely had he been doing?

"This is, in addition, to your past accomplishments and the gravity of the situation facing us." Lord Folmarv looked more grave than ever. "The severity of this information is so sensitive I must have you swear an oath to not reveal it to any soul. Even the High Confessor, should he be outside the bounds of it."

By the Gods… "May I yet take this oath and face away should these orders strike me wrong?"

"Delita swears this oath already, take it how you shall."

"Aye," and his friend nodded. "I would not seek your cooperation for anything untoward, Ramza."

So be it then. "Very well."

Lord Folmarv said, "Repeat after me: In the name of the High Father Faram, the Council of Gods and their son the Holy Saint Ajora Glabados."

"In the name of the High Father Faram, the Council of Gods and their son the Holy Saint Ajora Glabados."

"I pledge myself, my body my mind my word and my honor, to take solemn vow to accomplish my Holy Mission. To take oath of silence binding for those not sworn the same."

"I pledge myself, my body my mind my word and my honor, to take solemn vow to accomplish my Holy Mission. To take oath of silence binding for those not sworn the same."

"To uphold this word even under threat against the body, mind, material assets, family, or by any means which to sway you from your goal."

He paused. He knew he would balk should Alma or Delita be threatened, and yet… "To uphold this word even under threat against the body, mind, material assets, family, or by any means which to sway you from your goal."

"Glory be to the High Father Faram, the Council of Gods and their son the Holy Saint Ajora Glabados."

"Glory be to the High Father Faram, the Council of Gods and their son the Holy Saint Ajora Glabados."

The man behind the desk relaxed as much as the tension let him. "What we face may very well change the face of Ivalice, Templar. Success, or failure will enact profound effects."

There were few things that could accomplish such a feat. Was this, could this be related to his Lord Brothers? 'Twould explain a great deal why he was summoned beyond Delita's call. There were a number of other options, yet his mind settled this most possible.

"In five days' time, a group of men shall advance on Orbonne Monastery." Alma spent some time there, if he recalled correctly. "They shall attack the Monastery, and assassinate Her Highness, Princess Ovelia Atkascha."

"What!?" Ramza nearly stomped forward. The oath split between absolute sense and none at all. "Why have the Lionsguard not been warned? How did we learn of this? Who would do such a thing?"

"'Tis obvious whom," said Delita.

He knew immediately. "Dycedarg."

"The Lord Beoulve indeed," the Grand Master confirmed. "Our watch has him the mastermind for this vile deed."

"Why have the proper authorities not been informed?"

"Because Her Majesty and Duke Larg order them."

By the Gods, how rotted had Ivalice truly become? "To what end?"

"Two heirs rise apparent to the throne: Her Highness the Princess and His Highness Prince Orinus Atkascha. Two Lions vie for their control. Larg beholds stewardship of both, yet if one fell to Duke Goltanna's hands he would but declare his ward the true monarch. War, a civil war. A War of the Lions." He let out a deep sigh. "Dycedarg moves to ensure there is but one heir and it lies guarded well in White Lion claws."

"The Lionsguard would not sit so idly by while their charge lays dead by White Lion swords!"

"And if it fell by Black?"

"What?" Ramza gasped.

"The men who move on Orbonne bear Duke Goltanna's crest on their back. Royal blood on his hands, all would abandon his cause. Southern Sky true or not, the Lionsguard will only repeat what they see."

He had not considered that. He lacked any such skill in intrigue, and yet, he felt to better that way. "But we may yet stop this, shed truths."

"And what then?" said Delita. "Full well you know the ease at which Dycedarg lies. Nay, we must lure him in, weave through his defenses. Bleeding those responsible is impossible but we may yet perform a decisive strike."

"You would have the Princess be but bait for denouncing my Lord Brother," Ramza grimly realized.

"We would be her shields, Ramza," continued Delita. "Bring her safe and unharmed to Lionel, beyond Dycedarg, beyond Larg— even the Queen."

"This does not tell me how we would deal with my Lord Brother."

Delita looked on in frustration. "We hold the patrol routes the Northern Sky uses. Under much the same orders to slay Her Highness as the men sent to Orbonne. With her own eyes she would see, her own ears she would hear that her family wants gone of her. Duke Goltonna would quickly lend his aid when announcement is made of the culprits for the attack. Duke Larg's powerbase would erode as he intended his rival's."

"He shall not be stopped by simple words," said Ramza. "This leads to war."

"War comes regardless," said Lord Folmarv. "Lest you would have Lord Dycedarg retain his position because lives would be lost. Or did you fancy that no one would be harmed in such outrage?"

The specifics had never come to him. He did not want to acknowledge them, and yet. "This remains the surest and swiftest way to victory?"

"Mayhap there is way more that I would gladden to hear, but until such graces my ears this is what we shall do."

Ramza faced his friend. "And Delita, you agree with this?"

"Much of it was my idea," he admitted. "Using what I learned of both Skies. Ramza," he placed his gauntlet upon Ramza's shoulder, "this is the justice we sought." He looked earnest as he could.

Tietra would finally have her due. "I understand. Let us go, Delita."

"Such vigor is appreciated but there is some small work beforehand," said Lord Folmarv. "The Templarate shall be, discreetly, lending aid to ensure your path safe as able. As well, you require a change of livery. Should this fail, it cannot fall back on the Church, selfish as it stands."

Everyone must cover themselves, yes, but it left a sour taste to agree. "Would I procure myself or is it set already?"

"A change of armor awaits you in your quarters. See it certain to fit, and keep it stored 'til no eyes lay upon you. Say any goodbyes and meet Herial at the docks."

"Aye, ser."

Ramza straight-lined for his room when the meeting finished. He did not trust this, not fully, but he could ask the truth of Delita when they sat alone. Cordial leavings left his lips those few he met.

His room opened, a suit of armor adorned the stand. Black, a deep black. Plated armor similar to Delita's but smaller all around and included a helmet, face-guard closed. Closer inspection saw the intricacies of the craftsmanship. Platinum armor, if his eyes did not deceive. The black covered it well, but the specific horizontal protrusion of the pauldrons matched the illustration in the manuals he'd read over his time. The helmet's crest swept backwards and the guard linked from sides towards middle met. This was well above the standard mythril or gold sets he wore.

A sword sat attached as well, and a quick inspection set it matched. A lustrous mix of mythril and platinum that shone ever the brighter compared to the drab armor.

The shield needed few coats, the usual rounded triangular appearance with set a dark blue with a white edging.

It sat loose when he wore it, far a surprise if he was not involved with the outfitting, yet the blacksmith should have his size by now. He set the straps tighter, loose still, but enough to work.

He switched to some simple traveling clothes before storing the new armament in a trunk. A full suit of plate armor, shield and sword, carried mostly by arm, and did not impede his pace all that much. The wonder of lightweight and sturdy materials.

No one particular beset his exit. An odd relief that he did not need to speak with Alfredo, but also depressing.

But someone did catch him before the docks. Gylda, with her usual smile. Short goodbyes, and sweet good lucks were exchanged. He'd been ever the better student of white magick than he'd been a teacher.

Delita met him, already having exchanged his fond farewells with Gylda, and with a helping hand bringing the trunk aboard, they set sail to Gariland.

* * *

Lezalas Rezar bad his farewells. His pretty wife, his adorable daughter. His dog and his manservant. 'Twas like he would never see them again. But if it brought before them gil stacked larger than their miserly home 'twould be enough.

Upon the streets of Eagrose me rendezvoused with the squad he was to lead. All men like himself, just barely above the cut for Fifty Years' War payment, yet not enough to live a life of comforts like the great noble houses.

Wezlaf aided an ailing mother, Biggs a wife many months pregnant, Diesch beheld a floundering business and Fuchs his family's great debts.

Fuchs handled him a smile vial. A black, foul-smelling liquid within. A paint for hair should the plan run awry. None would be identified easy as Northern Sky. Lord Dycedarg held nothing to chance, even should failure come their goal.

On armored chocobo they set. To Orbonne.

* * *

Inside his office in Lesalia, Lord Zalbaag Beoulve ran his bare fingers across the surface of the Libra stone once more. Every time he engaged in prayer he did so with the Zodiac Stone in between his fingers. Each time he felt ever-closer to the Gods.

"Lord Brother, what are you doing?"

Alma's voice near-caused him to leap from seat, sword in hand.

Sloppy, both himself for being too absorbed in the stone and his security letting her past without forewarning.

"I was praying," he answered honestly, secluding the auracite. "Why was I not informed you'd arrived?"

"I thought simply to give old Geoffrey time away," she said. "He is much too old to stand around all day."

"Better standing pay than sitting drunk," he answered. "Why have you come?"

"It's…" she gulped. "It's almost been a year since we lost track of Ramza." Her lips curled thin.

Zalbaag sighed. "I know. My knights bring no word of him."

"I should be out looking for him?"

"I would as well, if I did not hold to such responsibility."

"Such as a Zodiac Stone?"

"Pardon?" Alma would be the one swiftest to recognize holy auracite.

"May I yet pray with it? That he might be found soon?"

The Templar's trust would not be violated with such. "Yes, of course."

He pulled free and the half-siblings shared the divine mystery before them.

"It's different…"

"What?"

"Oh," she held the look of a child just caught in some child's crime. "I beheld a stone much the same during my stay at Orbonne. 'Twas a lovely sky blue."

Where the Princess stayed for now. 'Twas but five days until she was to journey for the fastness of Eagrose. Lord Brother had much the roads safeguarded by Northern Sky but 'twas Lionsguard alone that would provide full escort. Even over Zalbaag and Duke Larg's objections. Lord Brother always proved wise...

Still, a little wisdom of his own couldn't hurt. The auracite was like safe and secure in the Church's hands, but the Princess could do well with an additional shield. And…

"I think your prayer is heard, Alma." She brightened up, but retained confusion. "This business calls me south, I may yet find our dear missing brother during that time." 'Twas unlikely, but so were chance that Alma had lain eyes upon auracite prior.

"Thank you, Brother!" she flung her arms around in an awkward hug. "Please, let me come too!"

He returned it with a smile to blunt the rejection. "Nay, Alma. Lord Brother shall be cross enough with me for leaving Lesalia. He would strike my position should I put you in danger." Hardly, but 'twould be severe.

"I have lost one brother already…"

"Precisely why you should remain," he said and moved to look her straight in the eyes. "I shall return, I promise."

"Very well…" she remained downcast. But 'twas for her own safety.

"Good, I shall depart on the morrow." For today, he needed to ensure a safe transfer of authority to his second. But to Orbonne he would go.

* * *

The supplies that awaited Ramza (his face obscured) and Delita were secured at the familiar location of Saint Elmo's. Two chocobos , armored without any particular livery and with large, thick saddlebags. Twice more than enough provisions for three people to take the nine-day trip from Gariland to Lionel Castle. It lacked in finery for Her Highness, but life over comfort. No chocobo for her, either. Even if it was to save her life, 'twas still kidnapping.

The bizarre, impossible turns his life had taken.

Though mayhap more so was the story that Delita told. The chocobo he now mounted 'twas the very same that saved his life at Ziekden. It'd remained in Saint Elmo's care until a visit saw him finally recall the mount.

And, what became even more absurd, was Wiegraf recognized the mount as his own from the Fovoham Windflats.

Ramza took it a jest, at first, but Delita insisted.

After a quick prayer offered in the church proper, the two friends set out.

To Orbonne.

Camp was made in an old battlefield, but a half day's ride away from the Orbonne Monastery. The ruins of a small castle and town ravaged by the Fifty Years' War too irrelevant to ever be restored. Crumbling stone walls made for better cover than tent canvas to ward away the cold just a hair above snow.

Much of the travel time was spent catching up, Ramza speaking of the particularities of being drill instructor for soldiers a good deal many years his senior, or the depths of white magick from Gylda. And Delita of training in the ways of a Holy Knight while consuming every scrap of information regarding the Southern Sky he could.

With a fire to warm them and food in their bellies talk turned to the specifics of their mission. They would leave a decoy to delay any pursuit at the Arguay Woods east of Dorter. So close after to the Black Lion the White would not dare tread. They would convince the Princess of their loyalties once they crossed Lionel's borders, secure her in the Castle City of Zaland before delivering her to Lionel with an escort of Gryphons waiting.

"All lies."

Delita's words forced a good deal of blinks and a rubbing of Ramza's ears. "What do you mean?"

"The Church's words, their plans, what they tell me to tell you, all just ploys to convince you their worth." Each new word bitter enough. Delita's hands clenched the metal cup between them all the tighter. "They are no more honorable than petty nobles or your brothers."

He'd done much good in their service and yet… It was Delita saying this. Any other he would dismiss. "I take your word true Delita, but what proof and what truth do you hold?"

A wash of relief took hold of his friend's features. "Thank you," he said. "The holy men of the Church still bear that ever-unpleasant sign of still being men. And men hunger for power, not ever satisfied. They mean to set the Princess in Duke Goltanna's House and Prince in Duke Larg's. Push the War of Lions forward to their own march."

"To what end? War benefits the Church naught."

"War itself? No. But to end it?" Delta's grip bent the cup he held. "They'd be seen as heroes, peacekeepers, men to lead us all from the greedy nobles who'd spill the blood of a million for but the blood that flows in two."

"'Twould not be easy. Dycedarg would never agree to such, and no mention be made of those alike him."

"Men die in war," said Delita. "Even from their closest aids…"

The dawning realization came upon him. "Or the bold young hero who saved the Princess."

"I'd run the Duke through with my sword after discrediting House Orlandeu. By my hand and Marquis Elmdore's support they'd hold half of Ivalice in their sway."

The good Marquis was always a religious man. "This many daggers in the dark… How far does it reach? Folmarv? The High Confessor?"

"The architects of this, with Cardinal Delacroix as well. They'd see a crown dyed in the blood of Ivalice's people rest atop his wrinkled scalp."

"Isilud, Meliadoul? Cletienne?"

"I know naught how shallow it runs.

Was Isilud's attempt with Alma part of this?

He sighed. Once again he'd been blindly led astray. Even thinking he wouldn't fall for this he had. Dammit! He balled his fists and slammed them into his knees. If Delita were not telling him this he'd be simple fool once more. "Then we save her," he resolved. "Put end to these men who plot for war no matter what cause they claim it for."

Delita gave a weak smile. "How do you presume we accomplish that?"

"Any way we can," he said, matching that smile. "But I presume you have a plan your own."

"Aye," he nodded. "Theirs."

"Take it for ourselves?" Ramza slipped a crude laugh at the idea. "We are but two men. It takes the Church how many Templars and men in the dark to push their ideals forward? To say naught of the dead that pile upon our feet."

"And of the dead we may yet stop by putting end to foul rules?" said Delita. "I know we may have yet fields of corpses by war's end, but what choice yet remains? That which counters power is power all the same."

Ramza "This sounds much alike to Dycedarg's ways. Wiegraf's before he turned." Though so clear the promise be, the Church gave the Corpse Brigade commander. Nobles torn down from gilded houses and blood rivers in streets.

"Months ago, I would have laid you flat at such words." Instead sorrow dominated his face now. "But that is precisely why we must work together."

The words High Confessor graced him with a year ago filled his mind. "We would be checks upon each other."

A smile smile tugged at Delita's lips. "Larg has his Dycedarg, the High Confessor the Templarate, and Count Orlandeau much the same for Goltanna. The Queen kills any who dare speak against her. Entirely why it must be _we_ who do so."

"I take your side with easy confidence over Church's, Delita. How well you know I would put stop to you, should such time come?" Gods, what a ridiculous question he posed.

"If there is but one thing in this world I am sure of Ramza, it is that you always stay true to the right and honorable thing," Delita's words solid wall of conviction and trust.

Ramza, regretfully, scoffed at the praise. "I've been led astray by brothers and Church. 'Good of it all', once, twice, thrice now? I trust you Delita, Gods know I do, but what then? Where does this end?"

"With a change," his words an unbroken resolve. "Commons of two Skies, Beoulve half-blood of North and Church and Lady Princess Royal. Make three Heroes to end war and appeal to every class."

"Still we use."

"We _ask_ ," Delita hissed. "Offered death or crown and a better Ivalice, what words do you think fair Princess answer with?"

How did anyone deal in such shadowed intrigue. "'Twas not the justice Lord Father spoke so highly for," he said. "Yet a justice all our own…"

"Yes…" Delita's moon brightened.

"How well then, did you earn Church's trust so deep that they trust your hands to this?" Ramza asked. One answer yet remained, one six months prior. Only rumor and clear lie spread that day.

"Because of what occurred near Ajorafest," Delita grimly recounted. His eyes took the dark, blank look Ramza so often recalled of greyed knights who remembered the war. "Trust bought hard in blood."

"You never speak of it."

"'Tis difficult to believe it not the thing of nightmares." Delita's lips took a grim, thin line. "Best you not ever think it true, yet, you should know." His friend sighed. "There are things, dark things in this world that make play of men. Slaying such beast burdened my shoulders with trust and I yet sought more."

"You speak vague, ever still."

"Best left such way, until it may grace Princess's ears as well. Have her find comrade in confusion, an alliance of ignorance."

Ramza scowled at the deflection. "Then let us say this: The first time I mislike words you say."

Delita gave a slow nod. "The Church searches for auracite, and the Cancer stone we recovered held first a guardian of metal and gun. They shall revive the old legends, and men of metal from the Clockwork City of Goug. An army of Ajora's age that slew a half-dozen Templars with appalling ease."

Truly a dangerous foe, but not one so dire. "This feels not so brutal to be secret so grave, or for them to trust you so."

"You did not see the pulp that body became," that same hardline stance deepened. "We could not return with bodies simply because naught was left but stains."

He was not close companion to any dead man and yet, such a force to do so! "And trust?"

"I put my blade to end the thing when all others failed. If I had not, none would have returned that day. Trust bought in auracite and a good many lives saved. And a silence to such events only now broken. Many a month spent as Blackram, hunting Ebon Eye. My name adorns the rolls of the Southern Sky where no other Templars does."

Auracite that then bought Lady Dueller and Ser Beowulf their freedoms. "We should much clean the truth before it meets Her Highness," Ramza suggested. "I carry much doubt she holds stomach for a grisly tale. And, one thing more. Gylda, Deitrich and Pelinne."

"I've sent them message already. They shall be forewarned and unharmed."

'Twas the best they could do, save marching down and bringing them forth as well. Although... "You full convinced I agree to this plan?"

Much the time left awake was spent refining the proposition to Her Highness. The specifics of the attack, and kidnapping.

Night came, and went, and fully rested they donned their armors. Ramza's face, body concealed beneath black plate. Delita's with a white cape, the Black Lion emblazoned upon it.

On their chocobos they rode. Through stream and forest. Rain began, a cold, slow pelt that poked at their armor. Still cloaked by underbrush they looked at the solitary building before them:

Orbonne Monastery.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: This is essentially the end of Act One, in comparison to canon. We're back to the Prologue, and on to Act Two. It should come across more focused, and less bloated.**

 **As for the almost groan-worthy attempt at sympathy for Lezalas. There had to be some reason they charged headlong into Lionsguard.**

 **Thank you all for reading and have a focused day.**


	43. Chapter 42: Black and Gold and Red

**Chapter 42: Black and Gold and Red**

Fair in the evening distance, three lady knights of the Lionsguard stood guard outside the wooden doors of the monastery. Fair hair set long that brushed the twin heads of the lions that adorned their white capes. The rain upon them slicking it closer to their bodies, running down the spotless mythril armor adorning them and down the blue skirts before falling finally upon polished boots. Swords surely set the same at their sides, shields already attached.

Two watched from the doors of the old stone monastery whilst the third patrolled slightly further ahead, a path following the cobblestones that ended seven body lengths from the doors before leading to some works of wood and nature.

No eyes spotted the two, just underbrush.

Rain slipped off the blue, slanted roof of the monastery. Rain fell down the panes of glass in windows. To the river set around back and the small dock just barely visible from where they remained.

The patrolling knight reached stone's end, turned—and was struck by arrow from foe unseen! Gasp of pain cried out as Lionsguard drew blades—while one drew arrow—and turned to face new foe.

Five sets of eyes fell upon five men approaching on foot. Knight bearing crest of the Black Lion and the Southern Sky. Three archers, bows at the ready and badges set the same as knight. A chemist in green garb and cap, following along. Northern Sky in Southern colors.

The lady knights whirled her sword about to face this new foe, but the male quickly broke it free from her grasp. Another slash, and she went running. Shouts to get inside, warn their Captain, and the Princess.

Doors and thunder went wide.

From inside rushed the final knight. Her sword free. Her fair hair long and braided behind her, chestplate of mythril, marked as Lionsguard. Pauldrons, elbow guards knee guards the same. Blue cloth covering rest of upper body whilst leather gloves adorned feet and hands.

More shouts, more swords and battle was joined.

Two friends hidden, nodded.

Chocobos whirled around battle's side to building's rear. The great yellow birds taking the leap up the dock with great ease. A small door connected recluse to dock. While those in front fought they'd sneak away with the Princess.

"I will go," Delita volunteered. "Watch the mounts."

"Hold," said Ramza. "How fair your white magicks?"

"The Lionsguard?" Delita scowled. "A ways worse than your own."

"Easier to convince her with kind aid."

"Easier still to take her asleep."

"Have her against us so early?"

Delita shook his head. "Go, if only to be the quicker."

Ramza nodded. Face still fully concealed he dropped from his mount and took the path inside.

Sound of girl's pleading reached him first, come from above. The side entrance deposited him below a long square platform raised the height of three men, with a barrier of wooden banisters set around its ring. The top of the door but barely visible up to his left; while his right side, center of the room was the cross of Glabados rising high, even above the platform. No stairs met his sight easy.

Fair good time spent with Isilud did then.

The scraps of his armor on stone floor altered those above none. Magick to his legs, silent as able, he leapt above.

Carpet of rich red met his feet as he landed with dull thud behind Her Highness.

The royal turned, shock full clear on her pretty face. Her arms still cradled still the bleeding body of the Lionsguard dying the carpet a different shade of red. A staunch young lady, that knight, struggling to say, "Run," even as she bled out.

But the sword Ramza drew, pointed at neck dissuaded that notion most soon. Beoulve pointing sword at the crown in the name of peace. Better for life than death.

"Who are you?" the Princess demanded with the weight of her title behind her.

"Odd as it is to say, Your Highness," he said. "I am here to kidnap you."

"I will not take orders from you." Her words venom.

"Then my dear lady, let us have you do it for another." He pointed at the dying knight. "I would tend to the fallen dame's wounds if you but come with me."

"...Don't…" choked out said knight.

"You shall come either way, but this one leaves lady knight alive."

The Princess glanced between the two. "I have your word?"

"On my honor. Hold to this agreement and her life is hers once more."

The knight tried words once more… but they took their toll. Sleep before the last enveloped her.

"Do it."

At once he cast, lightning faster than that outside. The healing power of curaga washed over the trio. The pale touch of death warded away from fallen knight. Living now held to her own courage.

"Then let us depart, post haste." Without forewarning he swept her off her feet. Treason to touch royal personage without consent but treason enough he came to stop. She struggled, but carrying her like she deserved he leapt back off, towards the door.

He set her down, but his hands still gripped hers solid.

"Unhand me!" she screamed as they left the building.

She would alert her guards at front. No thunder clouded her voice. "My end is upheld," he said, "so lest Atkascha word of honor dies with you, 'tis your words that we now follow."

Her struggles ceased. Such good head she held. He cursed himself the cur he was as he led her to dock and chocobo.

Delita smiled at them, turned frown as Ramza pushed Princess on bird. Who then struggled once more upon sight that lie behind. "Agrias!" she yelled.

Ramza turned. The Lionsguard leader, only slightly disheveled from victory. What fearsome knight to put end to five others so swiftly!

"Unhand her you curs!" The Lionsguard's sword already pointed at him.

Almost amusing, in spite of the circumstances. ""We hold to agreement, Her Highness and I," he said. "Less you treat your mistress's words as irrelevant, tend to your wounded."

"Agreement? Threat by sword's point is no agreement!"

Neither then, would accepting release by it. They could ill-afford tarry any longer. The patrols for Northern Sky too tight to evade for long.

"'Twould seem the Lady Knight agrees with me," said Delita. "Should simply have taken her unawares and made to sleep a spell."

What poor timing to get his way… "What matters is it is done." Ramza leapt into saddle swift as able. "We ride!"

The duo kicked their chocobos into a run.

Metal clang took behind them but could not take their backs. Too swiftly did chocobo ford river to catch.

"Agrias!" the Princess did cry as they fled. That struggle did return. A hearty resolve.

"Must I repeat myself?" he said as they made way.

"I have came with you and our words prove true now release me!"

Already searching for a way around his words. She was Royal-enough already. "Were it not death that waits on your return, gladly Your Highness."

"What do you mean?" Curiosity riding over anger, for now.

"More than five men seek your life this night, Your Highness," said Delita. "We mean to make them fail."

"You rob me my protectors and claim yourselves friend? Trade your armor for jester's cap, _ser_."

Their mounts came ashore, Orbonne a fading tower in the distance.

"You've quite the wit about you, Princess. But I shall say no more, when actions speak louder."

"And jester's cap fits you all the more with riddles poor as that."

Delita burst quite surprisingly into a laugh. "Let us hope your mind proves as sharp as your tongue."

* * *

They encamped north of the monastery, before the edges of the underbrush that made the Araguay woods. A small, sheltered alcove of ancient dead trees and upturned dirt. Made as warm and soft for Her Highness as they could the steel-hard ground. Fire made, risky, but all they had to dry regal clothes. The white dress and red cloak soaked too well for gentleman to see.

Ramza took sleep first, armored still head to toe. His back would be sore on sun rising. The chocobos set free from saddles and saddlebags to graze their food afield.

Delita remained awake, both watch for foe and friend. Though her stamina ran low some time back, but a minute was all needed for the Princess to flee. Dangerous, he warned her, even without men to account, more monsters walked these paths than she'd outrun in darkness and dress.

She sat, uneating, staring dangerously into the fire. Her braided hair sat forward with her, stray hairs leaving its confines.

"Why do you not wear a helmet?"

"Pardon?" And she repeated. His ears did not mistake. "I thought it better to meet your face with mine. While my friend preferred practicality should we cross those who would do you harm."

"You bear the banner of one who would do me harm."

"Yet here I sit your guardian," he amused himself with the statement. "Eat. Best you have your strength for what comes, at our side or no."

She refused the salted stick of dried meat and few red apples offered her. Far from fit for royalty but best what they had preserved. "What meaning is there to have men both sent to kill me and kidnap me?"

"That presumes we marched with the men in front."

"You are both of the Black Lion!" she shouted.

"Keep your words quiet," he warned her. "Or I will do what my friend could not."

"There are Northern Sky patrols along each road, my shouts will reach them in time."

"The ears they should not reach," he told. "Black Lion? All men claim under Ivalician banner yet we've Lions of White and Black and two heads, Gryphons, Swords, Signets, and Cross."

"You claim your allegiance not with them? Who?"

"You now would trust words of the rogue who took you?"

The Princess caught herself. "If you make speech to be my ally I would wonder why you take me from ones I steadfast claim my own."

"The Lionsguard would sparse believe the words we say."

"And I am so much easier to sway alone then?" Her guard strengthened.

"I only hope the truth opens your eyes." And on the side of eyes… Delita took a look above their position. The chocobos should have returned by now. If monsters met them such a panic would have echoed high already. Even the thick vegetation would not dissuade their graze so long. Sleep as precious as time they could not waste any rest watching them feed.

A sloppy mistake. But Northern Sky should not be here, not so soon.

Delita moved closer and nudged Ramza awake. "The chocobos have not yet returned."

His words slurred a tad, Ramza asked, "You think human hands caught them?"

"Much like. We should proceed with all haste." Terrain moving forward put human foot on par with chocobo's. Plains after the danger, but that was tomorrow's worry.

As Ramza roused himself Delita turned back to the Princess and said, "If men yet do pursue us there is no guarantee they have your safety in mind, Your Highness. Brigades, Southern Sky or other such vileness. Hold your words close and we shall guard you closer."

A glare marred her face and gave her answer.

They packed as quickly, and quietly as they could. The fire stayed lit. If eyes were upon its smoke, they would be forewarned upon its quenching.

'Twas impossible to carry all they brought, even if the Princess unfairly held a share. They threw aside what they could not use and packed what they could. Only the barest essentials in food and blankets. Twice the food given for trip to Lionel now reduced to a day's extra to reach Besselat.

On foot so slow, they wordlessly moved further east into the cold, overgrown woods of Araguay.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: This Chapter was written in nigh six hours after the prior was finished.**

 **Spiritblade: Thank you for your Review. The times they are a changing. Blood spilled in many names always for age-old same purpose. How many men turn away the power they touch?**

 **Thank you new Favorite and new Follow. Thank you all for reading and have a captivating day.**


	44. Chapter 43: Holy Ark

**Chapter 43: Holy Ark**

A sense of unexplained unease took hold of Zalbaag Beoulve as he approached the road that led to Orbonne Monastery. 'Twas not 'til he was but few minutes' ride from the secluded point that he found words to express it.

No Northern Sky patrolled these roads.

He'd seen his knights all the ways north and heard reports they kept west and east secure. But the most important route left vulnerable.

And by now, if his grasp of time did not fail, he should well have passed Her Highness's entourage. Some delay could have seen them slowed, yet old instincts told him no such coincidences shrouded Royal blood.

He kicked his chocobo through the gaits to its gallop. Full speed ahead he arrived to bodies in puddles red and caped crest Black Lion.

Duke Goltana made his move.

Cursing his lord brother's overconfidence he strode into the building, sword at the ready.

Near-crashing course into lady knight within.

Her sword of mythril pointed at his head but his to her belly even quicker.

"Lord Zalbaag Beoulve," she recognized him with eyes only slightly wide.

A quick glance at her, and three other lady knights behind bore clear their insignia and status. "You would be Lady Oaks, head of Her Highness's Lionsguard detail, correct?"

"Aye." The knights allied put their swords to sheathe. "Have you come with reinforcements so swiftly?"

"Nay, though clear desire I had. Who takes Her Highness?"

"Knight bannerman of Duke Goltanna and another, both mounted. The frontal assault outside but diversion whilst they sent men around."

"They go to Fort Besselat then." Auracite could wait. "I ride on one chocobo, have you any others?"

"Nay."

'Twas far too careless for lord brother. "We make for Dorter first then."

"They shall move straight to Araguay!" she shouted. "We cannot tarry on proper roads!"

"We shall not catch them on tired chocobo either," he said. "Nor make notice of how many more men lurk in shadow. We purchase fresh mounts, spares, and a host of knights with us east."

"This would not have occurred had Duke Larg provided proper escort." Her fist clenched at the situation. "Lavian, you are in command. Make way to Dorter whence your wounds no longer sting. Mounts may yet meet you halfway."

"Yes, milady."

No more words need be said, so once more under dark and stormy sky they went. Northern Sky Lord Commander and Lady Lionsguard on one mount. Swift as the beleaguered mount was able, and all through the night.

Words exchanged for his purpose here, short and to the point. Turns spent as rider and passenger to make what sleep they could.

Sopping wet morning they arrived. The smell of wet grass presiding over them even as they entered the city on the direly exhausted chocobo.

But as they walked up an incline his senses warned once more the particularity of the situation. No man, woman or child walked the streets. Knights that patrolled these streets but half-day ago now gone. All activity but sound in the distance.

Two figures crossed path, at head of the hill they slight climbed. One, face and form obscured in dark robes took flight upon sight of them. The other, a gangly man, threw his green cap to the ground, and shouted well and clear to be heard by all. "Gods be good, that's Lord Zalbaag! Two thousand a head for this!? Lads we run! Our heads preserve better running against their swords than his!" With a whistle the man took clear away.

Their swords need not even be drawn and yet… "The Black Lion has its gil spent even in Dorter," he said. "'Twould answer the absence of my knights."

"But the full force your presence enough to send such ruffians running. Spur your men to action, then."

"Indeed," he agreed. "But remain wary, chance however slight this but ploy to take us unawares. Evidence enough they act as such already."

A nod her answer and they went forth again. Hands just slightly closer to sword handles than before.

No more challenged their progress before they arrived at the garrison for the Order of the Northern Sky. Well-undermanned and when Zalbaag made his decree only a freshly-minted lieutenant met them.

"Ah, m-my lord, so pleased to meet you." He was lanky, shaky and his darker blonde hair sat a mess from the removal of a helmet. "W-what brings you here?"

"Where does the rest of the garrison march? There should be a hundred knights here at least."

"T-there's been some, d-difficulties with the townsfolk." The nervous young man swallowed. "No riots or anything, but the knights are keeping a c-close eye on it all the same."

Did Duke Goltanna intend to add more blood to this? Count Cid was clear innocent in any culpability now.

"We need messengers and mounts and all the knights at liberty. Messenger must be sent to Eagrose and Leslaia at once."

"F-for what, my lord?"

He looked towards Lady Oaks. 'Twas her decision to make, and she answered. "Her Highness has been kidnapped by troops under the banner of Duke Goltanna."

"W-what!?" the man would have leapt from his skin if he could. "B-but I saw her riding towards Lesalia myself just hours ago!"

"What!?" the pursuing knights shouted in unison.

"Y-yes, with my own eyes I swear! I-I mean I don't know the Princess but she had Lionsguard like yourself with her."

Lady Oaks said, "They seek confuse us with false flags and false royalty. Does the Duke's treason know no bounds?"

"But it remains a keen move," Zalbaag pointed out. The patrols lessened that direction more than any other. "Would you take east, or north?"

"East," she said. "By myself."

Zalbaag shook his head. "You know at least two escort Her Highness, you cannot face them alone."

"Nor with Knights of uncertain loyalties riding at my side. Already we see sellswords, wrong banners and citizens riled for this. I trust but myself and my women for this."

There was no persuading her then. "Then missive to your ladies by your own hand."

"Aye."

Messages stamped and signed by Beoulve and Oaks were written and sent. Pray, the both of them, they reached intended hands.

* * *

Traveling a woods where light shone barely was difficult enough when that light was sun. Under moonlight they forced quick burst of magick to form torch. Dangerous, with such thick plants, even in winter cold.

Delita had the lead, the lighter burden of the two friends. To keep the way clear and be vanguard fighter. Her Highness behind, and thus in between. She kept well, even at such exertion. But the hem of her dress dragged her down well-too enough. Clever little head, to purchase as much time for her lady guards to come running.

Some however, falls true. One which spilled more royal blood than should ever be allowed. A quick cast of cure was followed. And Princess turned burden-to-carry upon the ever-burdened shoulders of helmeted knight. Too dangerous for even her to resist and risk other slip.

Well and able that dragoon training was so particular about footwork.

Pace slowed considerably enough that day rose while still in woods. Fatigue setting in more and more 'til none could go on no longer.

No words. Too dangerous. Goblins and panthers. Undead and worse, made these woods their favored killing grounds.

A much unsettling sleep centered at noon. But sleep nonetheless.

Fading ray's of sun fell softly through the canopy when their journey renewed.

Darkness, the old enemy, was when Her Highness proved bold again. "Why must you start a war?"

"Would you prefer a coffin than, Your Highness?" said Delita.

"I would much prefer neither."

"West lies death; East lies war. You are plaything of either Lion."

"You accuse Duke Larg to want my life."

Ramza spoke up, "The men who attacked the monastery were Order of the Northern Sky dressed in the capes of the Southern. They would abscond with you eastwards, before your life was lost in an unfortunate clash with the Northern Sky patrol."

"There is no reason for such!" her words spurred dangerously high.

"Why risk chance with two heirs and one taking refuge with Black Lion when there's but one heir in White Lion claws along?" said Delita. "Duke Larg enjoys a many more years reagent over Prince Orinus than you, Your Highness."

"I cannot believe my family would order my death so easy."

"Belief matters little in the land of truths."

"Two men who do not even reveal their true names."

Ramza spoke, "Names have little bearing on righteousness." As Dycedarg, Tengille and so many others had shown them.

"I am Atkascha." Her will emboldened by the dynast. "None your acts righteous, only claimed so by your words. Yet I must bid time for proof of such."

"'Tis hard to prove life fraught by danger when we do our best divert it so."

"We traipse in woodlands beset by darkness, you bring me to Duke Goltanna to use my name for war. You keep distance my protectors who hold all my trust. My life lies in danger because of you."

Well, they could well not deny _that_.

"Aye," Delita agreed. "Danger true, but the well and lesser danger with us. Even should you embark road west some manner of threat would impede your life."

The Princess's turn to speak cut short by Delita commanding, "Hold."

An incline down, wrought with gaping holes in the earth. Old enough for grass to have grown in them. Grass packed close to earth. Not sole by winter's lack of life. These were pits made. Steps recent.

"Tread more caution than before," he told them. Taking first steps around once more. Pit interior deep enough to inconvenience, trip fleeing prey, but not enough to counter focused eyes.

Even still, swords left their sheaths as they continued onwards.

The march forward a nauseating mix more of anxiety and distrust than even before.

Mayhap why Ramza asked, "Should we reveal the full breadth to Her Highness now?"

"Would you believe us, Your Highness?"

"No," she swiftly answered. "I have seen no reason to do so."

"May that change before it's too late."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:  
**

 **Asahar4: Thank you for your Review and praise.**

 **Thank you new Favorite and new Follow. Thank you all for reading and have a warm day.**


	45. Chapter 44: Falls

**Chapter 44: Falls**

Break came to the mire of Araguay woods mayhap an hour before sunrise. Even still, sleep in darkness was theirs once more, once suitable bastion was found. (A secluded hill, half-caved in.)

Ramza took first sleep. The Princess a silent, tired vigil and still she refused to eat or sleep lest it was forced upon her. Delita's sleep came last. Waking midday now. Tired, he was, but Ramza was still more so and bore it better.

Breakfast upon wake also the Princess's first time feasting. Hunger and thirst too much for one so accustomed to no need. It did not agree with her tongue, she spat some of the tough meat away. They did not have luxury to nitpick their victim's appetite.

On plains in day once more, magick could be used to lessen their burdens. From Ramza's lips flew a spell of haste and their pace eastwards could near-match a chocobo's.

Camp was forced at night once more, to aid in avoiding Northern Sky patrols. These lands too close to Black Lion to be in full force but enough to remain danger.

Princess deny each time any words to convince her.

Mayhap running into Northern Sky killers would do so.

Noon sun hung in the sky on the fourth day of the Princess in their care. Zeirchele Falls remained the last grasp the White Lion held of stopping their advance.

Even the Princess was aware, as her stumbles and rests took ever longer.

But intent for Ramza to shoulder her once more finally set her head straight. Enough indignity had been suffered.

The sound of the Falls grew to a thunder as they approached. The white waters cascading down the stairlike stones of the Algost Mountains. Grassy mess grew on stone and a small wooden bridge proved their goal: Passage over the river the falls fed. Wide as man-and-half but no rails meant but single line crossing. The damp passage was surprisingly sturdy as Delita tested it. He waved them across at once, in their usual formation.

A mistake.

A half-dozen Knights of the Northern Sky came from concealed alcoves across the pass.

"Back!" Delita shouted.

But retreat was covered by just as many.

A trap they knew could happen yet… The Templarate did not keep clear the roads as hoped.

Let this be proof for Her Highness then.

Swords pointed, seven each side.

The Northern Sky well-equipped. Mythril: swords, shields and armor. In formation and well-rested. Many steps above hard, cold half-sleeps the two had endured. This would be hard fought battle if they were at peak of ability against half-dead men.

More the worse when a seventh man exposed himself in front of Delita. A knight with mustache many years already grey. His helmet horned, his face-guard up and shoulders trimmed with fur. His plate long mended away from whatever it once was, only now a brown that resembled no set Delita could name.

"Your Highness!" the gray knight called over the falls, his voice a rough gravel. "Good to see you well! We shall have you on your way to Eagrose proper once this… incident, lies sorted."

"I… yes…" she could only respond. But so low the knight would not have heard over the falls roar.

"We've no intent of letting you take Her Highness to her doom," said Delita.

"Doom?" the grey knight's voice lightened to a smooth stone. "You've missed your true calling as a bard, boy. But there's no lute for you here boy and no use playing knight errant. Stand aside and you may yet live to see grey hairs your own."

Delita nearly broke into laugh at that. "You would run Her Highness through and us as well. Why let witness live to see the crime you bear? Why let Her Highness's kidnappers go if you were loyal to crown? Our blood will be spilt along with hers."

"I have fought more years than you've been alive, whelp. I know when battle may yet be avoided best do so. You've no chance against so many, even were you not exhausted as you are. Final offer."

Damn keen eye he had. "You'll not lay a finger on her."

"So be it." The man drew his sword. Blood sword, red as its name implied. "Your Highness, I humbly offer that you close your eyes. Violence does untested sensibilities wrong and we'd all prefer you not meet river's embrace."

A fall was three men's heights, more than survivable, if pained. But breath exhaled visible, 'twas cold enough to shock one dead while current dragged them along.

So then why had the knights not cut the bridge free first? Magick as well, would slay them with such alacrity. Yet they advanced with shields forward.

Thoughts to the future were cut away with clash of mythril.

If but one advantage the two had, 'twas the enemy could only approach one at a time.

Delita's single-edged pale-blue coral sword met the enemy's shining silver-white mythril to his flat. The enemy pushed his advantage peculiar light. The muscles of a well-rested veteran against flagging youth would be easy bet.

Delita would not retreat. Even a single step back to Her Highness was a failure.

The bridge made for poor footing. Delita a slight more aware to it. A twist of his wrist and a charge with his shoulder sent his foeman tripping off the side with a fearsome yell.

He did not watch the splash, merely heard it as his eyes turned upon his next enemy. Such a trick would not work twice.

Shocked gasp at the victory emerged from knight's ranks. They would not find simple child here.

The grey knight stood a length apart from his fellows. His eyes still judging the situation. The remaining five put forth one more, much the same type as before.

The new foe's strike was a level more controlled. The measured blow but a glance off Delita's shield. When Delita moved to counter the knight fell back.

Delita could not pursue.

Their foes could simply slowly and surely sap their strength with such tactics. Fair fortune they appeared to wield no bows in addition with their swords.

Sound of clash with Ramza's side took height over even the falls, but Delita dare not turn his head.

The lead foe came again, his blow from overhead harder, but easier to read. Delita met it with his shield again, but the knight did not fall back. His sword kept touched with Delita's golden.

The coral sword was not adept at thrusting, but the position left Delita hardly else to do. His angle easy to read and deflected well off his foe's own shield. Delita's arm went wide right and his foe's plan became apparent.

Delita countered with a charge forward. The quick use of force knocking his foeman back in a stumble upon the grassy stones.

Ramza struck like lightning from above. The black-plated man stabbing deep his sword into the shoulder of the knight closest to Delita. A near miss on a kill but a massive boon nonetheless!

His friend leapt back over, the bridge not swaying in the least.

Delita would give thanks were he not preparing his next attack.

The bloody knight fell back, the others uninjured circling round his person to shield him should any surprises be shown. A potion was procured and put to lip.

But before the magick drink could be swallowed Delita loosed his attack.

Magick in blade, he swung from above. And above, their end came. Shards akin to ice but the force of rock struck the clumped batch of knights. Judgment Blade's wrath to be feared.

The bloodied knight took to knee, not dead but close to it. The others a mix of injury but not enough to retreat from. Battered, but not deterred a new knight marched towards him.

A feel of lose, yet no pain, cleaved his body twain. Image of ethereal sword curved skyward slashing his vision.

Distraction, for third duel to start.

Delita took the advantage of first strike this time. He stepped forward with a stab at the sword-hand of the knight.

The knight retracted his sword arm, stepped forward, and swung his shield to bash Delita's over extended arm.

Delita beat him to it. Twisting into a spin, he swept his right away while his left side and shield came about and clubbed into the back of the knight.

The knight stumbled away. Delita fell back to the bridge. He rose his sword high.

Nothing.

There was no magickal source to drawn from within. His follow up failed. There'd been but one action to blame such upon. That peculiar slash of magick that inflicted no physical wounds.

Cursing inwards Delita returned his shield up and awaited the next attack.

The knights returned. Five of them all returned to health by potion use. They'd not advanced with the ferocity Delita expected, at first. Were they testing? Underestimating? Or was this just a slow attempt to sap his arms?

His actions had not wasted too much stamina but would not be long before his arms burned. His legs already felt the early onsets of fatigue.

Ramza surely all the worse.

"Enough," the Princess said. Words so soft yet they drowned the falls. "You two cannot be victorious. Simply retreat, and I shall command them no pursuit." Kind words for so unkind circumstances.

"You've proven yourselves bold young lads," said the grey knight. "Mind Her Highness's words and begone. We've more pressing matters than chasing louts like yourself." Insult and praise in same words.

"Save your tiresome lies," said Delita. "All who stand on this bridge would lay dead before day's end would you have your way."

"What need we have for such subtly, secluded as we are? But trifling effort to cut bridge's supports or strike true at Her Highness's heart—grim it may be to say," retorted the grey knight. "Only lies spun here from your lips to her ears."

The same concerns Delita held earlier, and yet… "'Twould be easier to welcome Her Highness with open arms than by sword."

"You took me by sword!" she shouted.

"You came by agreement," said Ramza.

"Oh!" the grey knight sounded surprise. "Our unsung friend speaks. Come, come, surely you cannot follow your friend into this madness?"

Ramza answered with a shout. "I follow him on the only path left sane. If fortune favor's your survival tell Dycedarg sins catch up even with men of power."

Those words the first time the grey knight seemed rattled. "So be it then," he said. "Kill them both."

The closest knight assailed him his strike a storm compared to the gentle breezes before. Delita's arm shook painfully with each block he barely made against the shield he barely got in position. 'Twould not last long against such onslaught.

The next strike Delita took he fell with the blow. His coral sword coming to a thrust. The knight took a slight stab against his center plate but fell back.

A second knight challenged him even before a breath could be drawn. His mythril but a slip too late to knock Delita's sword away. But the knight held shield forward and charged into Delita.

No trip here. Delita was bullied back by the bash and his attempts to counter could not find proper purchase—deflection after another.

'Twas time for a dash of recklessness. May it find better worth than attrition.

The knight's sword pulled back. Stab aimed at head. No chance for Delita to dodge or block with any grace.

So he gripped the knight as well he could and fell.

Slight panic enough. The knight attempted to retain his stance but his attempt to sword had pulled his balance awkward.

Landing was soft 'til the heavy knight knocked what little wind within away. And knight's helmet bashed Delita's unguarded head.

Painful strike and blood flowed free. The knight pushed himself up, pressure on Delita's chest.

"Jump!" Delita yelled.

Close enough to see confusion in knight's eyes (blue, bright blue) but not enough to stop him.

Ramza falling upon him did.

Platinum sword pierced knight's helmet. Those eyes went red and dead. Sword point just narrowly missing Delita.

His friend bloodied as well, but Delita gave comforting nod at such trust before he returned to Princess's side.

Delita shoved second foe to his doom but third was already upon him.

Laid still on his back, his opponent took opportunity to stab the weaknesses in Delita's lower armor. The gold plate had been layered meticulously to prevent such, but the joints were still an easier target than the refined mix of mythril-gold.

Delita sat up, attempted to beat aside the knight's stabs, but his positioning was too unfavorable. Any attempt to stand required more time than the knight allowed.

Plan for that slowly came to mind as the knight continued to strike. His feet would be naught but bruises by time's end but better than blooded or gone.

Delita braced his upper body with his shield, twisted his body to the side. He coiled back, ready to spring in one decisive action!

Ended upon pale red light falling on him. Eye of death its source. It hardened. It hurt. Image of half-seen sword.

His strength spent he fell back poorly.

He was damned sick of magicks that churned his insides.

The knight approached, sword raised high to slash.

Delita, drained as he was, could not dodge. Could not raise shield or sword or arm at all.

Only the awkward angle of attack prevented his head from being relieved its perch. Mythril still cut his neck. A beard of flowing red.

Delita shouted in defiance. Angle favored him now. All he could, a thrust up, under plate. Back, arm and legs in unison he drove his sword from belly to heart.

Another knight fell to a chilling grave.

This one with Delita's sword.

Hand now free to staunch his neck's blood.

Four more foemen before and how many more for Ramza? Luck and opportunity had served him so far but 'twould not any longer.

Time enough for time to stand, shield ready. Once more knight to be his partner.

A single strike shattered his shield and nearly shattered his arm beneath it.

Delita sent a punch. But the enemy's mythril shield just blocked the clumsy attempt. It hurt him more to do it.

The knight advanced, it's slashes, quick, accurate and against any weakness in Delita's defense.

Which was everything.

He had but his plate left. Everything human in pain. He should have spent more time as a monk.

Still, his fists raised.

The knight slashed, stabbed and struck.

Delita blocked, dodged and took the hits as best he could.

His left hand rent near-useless. Half his bones felt broken and his skin pushed into indented plate.

Near.

The knight took a slash from his right. Barely did Delita avoid it. Quickly did he respond.

Delita stepped forward, to his left. Then a quick snap right his hands outstretched.

His golden gauntlets slipped alongside mythril. With a push on the pommel and crossguard he liberated the mythril blade. In a clumsy arc he swung he back around at the knight's head, but he ducked, and a killing blow glanced off.

The knight jumped up, shield first, and broke Delita's sloppy stance. The mythril sword plunged below.

The knight pulled back.

Three men left with weapons.

All feeling in his left hand stopped. His fingers still moved but he wasn't sure if it was because he made them or some spasm he couldn't control.

Well, that could be served later.

Delita staunched his neck cut well as he could.

The grey knight stepped forward. His mustache bent low with a frown. "Mayhap you'll be more talkative with your mortality flowing. Tell me boy, who invited you as party to this plot? Old Cid would not send swords as untested as yours to safeguard Her Highness."

He wanted to laugh at such a meager attempt to discern the truth. "Oh?" he choked out. "Two men dead already and I am the untested? Mayhap you best bark for your Master for orders, dog. You'll hear no explanation from me."

"Mind your manners, pup." The grey knight scowled. "Smart tongues do test my patience."

"And no answers ends it, I presume."

The grey knight scoffed and struck.

Delita brought his arms above to protect from the blow above.

Old though he was, he remained well-rested and strong. Cut into Delita's blood and forced him to his knees. Any strength mustered lost in pain and fury. Might pressed him down. Sword's edge drawing ever closer. Edge into his hair and head. He felt it on his skull. Hair sticky with blood.

There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could do. Blood and tear stained his vision. Breath could not speak Ramza's name. No one cried for him.

There was gasp.

Or mayhap his ears misheard. Falls so loud now.

Some manner of care. Some manner of sight. For whatever reason Her Highness did react.

There would be no more Tietras.

He'd put trust in Ramza once again.

A whimper of a roar preceded his strike. Everything he had left to tackle this old fool from the bridge! The sword struck to bone, no ease to remove!

But easy to dodge such pathetic tackle.

Better maybe death below than certain above.

Alone he tumbled over edge.

But smile tucked at his lips.

At least he took the sword.

Slamming into the water felt like a battering ram. The icy cold waters slapped the pain away. He was fully conscious as he sank to the bottom of the river…

* * *

 **Author's Notes: In the _War of the Lions_ cutscene, the Zierchele bridge is rather large, yet I went single-file here like in the game battle. Then, despite in-game you just fording the river effortlessly, I made the river deep and with a powerful current.  
**

 **Depending on a game release, there might not be any more Chapters this week.**

 **reyria: Thank you for your Review. Ovelia is actually quite resilient in canon, early on. It's only after Lionel she loses he nerve, for rather understandable reasons. Ramza actually has a bunch of classes under his command at this time. Delita's Holy Knight training is more specialized, than Ramza's. For the past half-year Ramza was learning everything "generic" while Delita was focusing solely on Holy Knight.**

 **Thank you all for reading and have a swell day.**


	46. Chapter 45: Shining Knight

**Chapter 45: Shining Knight**

Aurablast freed sword from foeman's overhead hand. Ramza surged magick to leg and sprung forth. Boot to helmet, left hand to handle. His foe's face as leverage he took to sky and, with force that would make guillotine envy, he struck down and slew opponent. Mythril blade breaking itself, helmet, and skull. Lifeless husk falling to ground.

One knight still remained. Did he look upon Ramza with fear? Seeing him best five knights by himself as a warrior to avoid? Or did he see his chance for victory? Against the useless right arm, barely-able left, sagging body with broken armor and legs bent low.

Ramza pointed the sword-now-dagger at his enemy's face. Just one more and he could lend magick aid to Delita and Her Highness.

Another splash, another foe down on Delita's end. Four more left, if his count remained correct.

"Hurry now, Your Highness!" that knight in old armor yelled. "The way lies clear!"

Ramza's blood chilled colder than the air. He averted gaze—stupid he knew! But he had to see. See where Delita _wasn't_.

The old knight stood, hand open, sword gone.

The splash. His friend!

Her Highness moved. Towards that knight.

"No!" Past all pain Ramza roared! Painful force to legs to muster. Above he flew, landed between villain and lady. "You will not lay your hands on her!"

"The other way then, Your Highness," the knight instructed. "You are bested boy, hop along to Duke Goltanna and grace him bad news."

"Your Highness!" Ramza barked. "I implore you once more: These men mean you naught but ill. Their swords will turn upon you should you go to them! I ask you, trust me, once more."

She hesitated.

Thank the Gods.

"You persist yet in this invention, on death's edge you are? Breathless, truly."

"So long as there is a breath in my body I will fight." He took full breath the chill air.

"Let us remedy that then." Yet the old knight without his sword fell back. He and another lacked armament, but third and fourth held mythril swords dear. Fifth man behind, advancing, his sword ready to end Her Highness.

Five reckless duels saw him near-dead with chakra infusion between. Two more to accomplish whilst leaping around Her Highness's sides. Flight with her astride possible, but he would not abandon Delita again!

His tactic now clear.

Leap over, broken blade strike lone knight. Easy to dodge; the lone knight fell back.

Perfect.

Over again he went to advancing one-among-four. Broken sword swung and glanced off shield. Enemy's blade swung deep and bite through undercoat to flesh. His left side a sheath of flesh.

Pain kept him focused. Elbow and pommel blows to foe's helmet. Still armored, it stunned for half-second.

More than time enough for Ramza's hand to grip around the knight's sword wrist. More secure than a lock.

The knight came about with his shield. Bash after bash that struck Ramza's head. Focus lost, sight blurred.

Grip remained.

Fifth bash nearly sent Ramza to his knees. But he retained enough. Might centered on his left hand. Tight as a vice now. Every scrap of fighting spirit that remained gathered and burst.

The gripped aurablast shattered the man's wrist. Ramza's grip loosened, his hand stinging from the pain. The knight fell back in a panic.

His thumb still worked. Lucky. And… two fingers. Luck of the Gods.

He pulled free sword from its bloody sheath. His grip was terrible. He couldn't swing it like this. His shaken arm nearly dropped it.

But two enemy swords remained. One knight more and he could clear path for Her Highness's escape.

Struck from beyond. A sword jutting from below, of pale, ethereal blood. Time spent as instructor, he recognized what it was:

Shadowblade.

Favored technique of the Fell Knights of the Order of the Eastern Sky.

To his knees Ramza fell. Life leeched from magicks and ebbed from gash in side. Some miracle beheld his hand still on hilt.

He turned his head. The only thing left he could muster. Stared at the uncaring eyes of the knight in brown. Silver-white sword that clashed with the hand that held.

"Your Highness," said Ramza, weak, low. She might not even hear over the falls and yet… "Run, live, survive. Do whatever you can, but don't die here."

The knight in brown advanced. A swagger of victory.

Ramza wished he could punish that arrogance.

"Why do you go so far?" the Princess asked.

"Because it is right." His full ire turned on advancing knight. "Eastern Sky, I should have know. Who better assassin than butcher of women and children?"

The knight guffawed at the truth. "Your last words a lecture on morality of all things? I'd sooner believe Saint Ajora my drinking partner than any man of Ivalice cares aught for Ordallian lives."

"I've no intent to let those be my last words." His body did not respond with the same vigor.

"Avert your eyes, Your Highness. This shall not be pretty."

The knight kept still. He would not risk melee when his Fell Sword would do.

No aurablast. No chakra. No magicks to leap. No magicks to protect, or heal. Potions gone from fights before and in pack laid discarded. He had naught but prayer left to aid him.

Yet he prayed for others instead. _May Delita and Her Highness come about unharmed._

"Hold your attack."

The Princess drew all attention to her with decree. "He is beaten, there is no reason to kill him."

Were he able to gape...

"Far better end by this sword than what awaits him in Lesalia for taking personage uninvited, or the beating my compatriots here would serve him even before then," the old knight said. "They will attempt to pry truths from his lips and we've seen many times over how stubborn they refuse. This is a kindness, Your Highness. Nothing more."

"You would refuse my order?"

"You play yourself expert on security and war now, Your Highness? Or was your security handled by another? Nay, I do not follow such folly of orders, even if it comes from your lips."

Ramza scoffed. "So you rather thought killing innocent people wasn't folly?"

"I'll not debate the intricacies of war with a boy who was never there and about to die besides." The knight's sword rose high.

Ramza clenched his teeth. Any hope to purchase time for some semblance of recovery died red with the blood falling loose. He couldn't even muster strength to staunch that. Even a last throw would amount naught.

Still…

"By the honorable House of Atkascha, and all the authority granted to me by my station, I command you: Stop."

"Ready yourself for disappointment then, Your Highness."

 _MOVE!_

He couldn't.

Four breaths before the sword came down. Agonizingly slow. Mocking him. Just a plaything before the Fell Knight.

The ephemeral paleblood deluged unto his head. It spiked upwards, solid.

It hurt.

He lived.

The pain far cry from before.

As the Shadowblade faded a gruff of anger came to the old knight's face. "You've done a fool's thing, Your Highness."

"As have you, ser," the Princess responded. "I have given my order and you _shall_ follow it."

Ramza's body glinted with magicks familiar. Protect, Shell, Regen, Arise and Haste. Swords and spells would cut a third and a spellblade more than half. Wounds hastened to close. Blood fell less freely. Critical strike would be warded. Some manner of stamina was restored by this. His hand gripped hilt tight. He could still fight.

"If Your Highness will not cooperate willingly, than you shall do so by force," said the old knight. "Restrain her."

The lone knight behind advanced once more.

Ramza could stand, but there was no path past Her Highness and he dare not jump in the state he was. Spell would see his back allayed. Aurablast remained an option should recovery continue...

"I have not given you permission to approach me!" the Princess attempted to ward the returned assailant away.

"Nor did you this lackwit," the old knight said. "This is for the best, Your Highness. Would you shy away from Chemist or White Mage come save your life?"

"If you claim yourself proper you must agree to my order."

Clear by now there were no words to convince the old knight or divine his vile true intentions. Why was she doing this?

'Twas obvious.

She was buying time.

The old knight did not realize Ramza's wounds were healing.

Good. Surprise enough to strike him first.

His prayer had brought him Her Highness's trust or distrust enough of the Eastern Sky. He'd repay her well in victory then, and on to rescuing Delita.

"Clearly you are afflicted by some form of magickal malady, assuredly cast by these uncouth youths," said the old knight. "We shall dispel such notions at once."

Ramza's largest wounds still remained, but time no longer paused. Northern Sky Knights advanced in two directions once more.

Shadowblade struck, but its effectiveness remained muted.

Ramza rose, whirled about. Hasted body like the wind he threw his sword at the fell knight. Not even following the throw, Ramza stepped, turned and called spirit to fist and threw it. Invisible blast through the air, through body of Princess without wafting her dress. Shout of surprise as it struck lone knight.

No such shout from fell knight.

His head turned back to see thrown mythril sword deflected away. Another blade to pierce the deep below.

One fist against one sword and one shield of gold.

Ramza took the initiative with a charge. Hasted still, he met the fell knight first. Purchase as much territory for Her Highness to retreat to. He struck from beneath the shield, an uppercut towards that mustache.

The grey knight stepped back, letting the punch go flying past. Ramza's stance exposed poor, the knight bashed fist away with shield and smacked Ramza straight in the chest.

Unsteady footing, Ramza staggered back. Shield could do little against his protection but unbalance him. Enough for grey knight to level silver-white sword and stab.

Ramza tilted his mostly-useless right arm forward. The blade pierced; Ramza grunted. It stuck in.

Ramza spun right. An open left palm against the center of the mythril sword. Edge that bit through gauntlets and flesh.

Grey knight pulled blade free.

Force of Ramza's arms lost. Mythril sword clattered awkwardly into the raised shield but remained gripped in knight's fingers. His foe unbalanced now. He retreated in order to regain distance. Slight angle, feet backed against edge.

This was his chance.

Fist of bloody fury slammed again and again into the golden shield. The old knight content to let the attack commence. Ramza's fists would break before his guard. But each hit, each flagging blow did force the old knight back just a hair. And then a step.

His foeman had not realized the angle, his foot slipped free from the bridge. Right leg fallen off, his left on knee and arms perched on bridge's planks. The old knight swore as Ramza pulled back. He could not pull himself up without dropping his arms. And but one sword would then remain in their employ.

His left hand throbbed in absurd pain. The magicks mending him could not restore such minuscule and specific damage. He'd have to kick the knight off.

The remaining two Northern Sky on this side moved to assist.

Ramza was by far the faster.

He might not be able to do a dragoon jump but he could still kick near as hard. The old knight blocked it with his shield, but it was enough.

With another swear that roared high over the falls he fell.

But there was no satisfying splash.

The old knight grasped some manner of gem and vanished.

Teleport.

Why he had not done so to slay the Princess before could wait. Three more knights demanded his attention.

He moved his near useless arm back into a fighting stance. He couldn't waste any more stamina on talking.

The two knights looked at him…

...and ran.

The surprise of such nearly caused Ramza to fall over himself. But even a look back, and yes, all three living Northern Sky assassins were retreating. The dead left untouched.

Almost assuredly to gather reinforcements.

"Thank you," Ramza spat out. Blood, spittle and even a chunk of tooth struck the inside of his helmet.

He needed to get to Delita. He had no idea if he was stuck at the bottom of the river or the current carried him down. Was the current strong enough?

He moved.

He didn't.

No matter how much he willed his legs to action they stood still. Shaking, really.

Without a host of knights to threaten his life, all the pain and wounds crossing his body came rushing back like a tide. If those Northern Sky had stood their ground but a few breaths longer…

He could spare no more time for this, he had Delita to aid.

"You're too injured to move," said Her Highness.

"Doesn't matter, I have to find him," he said. But his body wouldn't follow. Everything screamed at him to simply collapse.

"It _does_ ," she reinforced her words. "You won't be able to help him if you perish as well."

"I owe him too much to simply let him lie. Your protection shall be boon enough." Blessed, that she graced cast upon him.

"I hold no more magicks that may aid you," she said.

But he had his own. Without swords pointed at his face he could actually use magicks once more. The pool of magick within still had depths to tap. Drawing upon inner power, he cast "curaga" on himself. Movement returned to his arms, stiff, but he could swim now. A single step followed. Then the second. "I'm coming…" he choked on cold air before he could say that name.

The relief from Her Highness's spells faded away. He could not dare ask another, not after what he'd done.

Staggered steps he took forward…

Ones not followed.

He looked back. Her Highness stood there, indecisive, yet worried. She'd seen men die in her name for the first time of her life. Even Ramza, trained as he was, shook just a bit when he slew his first man. How much worse yet it must be for her.

Yet Delita's fate remained uncertain.

He could not leave her.

He would not leave Delita to meet Tietra and Fulke. Not like this.

"Your Highness, we must away. More seeking your life shall be here shortly."

"Why, why should I follow you to Duke Goltanna?"

Without Delita, such a thing was impossible… "I ask you trust me—trust _us_ ," he pleaded. "We came to save your life and it may yet have claimed my friend's. If you think to flee, do so. I can no longer stop you, with my blood shed as it is. Take what you must from the packs, do not put your trust in those you meet, save those you know beyond reproach. How far their claws dig deep I do not know."

"I… I believe you earnest in your desire to protect me." Some progress breathed relief into Ramza's tired body. "But even if the words you say at the White Lion's loyalties lay true, there is naught for me in Black Lion lands save another man who'd use me."

"Aye," he agreed. "That is the burden of your name. If you'd follow me, I'd show to you path beyond that."

"Honeyed words. You would mean to use me as well."

"Determine for yourself, but I can spare no more breaths to converse with you while he requires aid first." He walked away. The grassy stones lowered, a path to the river bank was nearby. His leg beheld a slight limp that made descending a task. (Odd, with how few blows to his lower half he received.) Swimming would be more difficult than he first believed…

Delita'd survived a fort exploding in his face. Some cold water, lack of air and presumed wounds torn open by a torrent would not stop him.

The water tested dreadfully cold and with current strong enough to push his hand along. The depths of the river a dark blue that gave no view of the bottom. A cold, unforgiving coffin.

He'd need to test himself now. Water in boots dire but…

No, he had another, morbid choice. He hobbled back up. The Princess at the other end of the bridge, sorting through the pack Ramza tossed aside earlier.

He crossed, and without another word he stepped past.

He hauled one of the bodies, and tossed it below. It sank. But it moved downstream before it did. Delita caught in current the same, then. He could not see any bodies on the banks, even from above. Only a few minutes time may see them gone an hour south.

Good mind he came back. He procured a mythril sword from the fallen and all the potions that remained. Enough healing to finish what spells could not. The snappy blue liquid even kept his leg better. (Mayhap injured when he kicked the old knight away?)

"Here," he handed away four of the six potions to Her Highness. "Best you've more should we separate."

She was surprised by the gesture and tentatively took three of them. But her hand hesitated on the fourth.

It was bloody.

Ramza cleaned it best he could on his stained surcoat and pressed it into her hands.

"I'm coming with you."

The surprise answer from Her Highness forced Ramza blink a few times. "Are you certain?"

"I know not when the Lionsguard shall find me," she said. "I know not how to craft flame to survive in cold night."

Practicality, at least, rather than trust. But it was a start. "Then we follow the river south. If the Gods are on our side we shall find him soon." Ramza shouldered the saddle-bags pack and Princess and knight headed south.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: I think just going straight after Delita's fall is better for pacing rather than describing all of Ramza's duels, but maybe you readers don't agree? I'll go write-add them in if anyone's particularly curious.  
**

 **Asahar4: Thank you for your Review. Turns out it's not arriving 'til next week so I gotta get myself a nice amount of backlog before then. Maybe Ramza's half is more your cup here?**

 **Thank you new Follow. Thank you all for reading and have a steadfast day.**


	47. Chapter 46: A Cold and Lonely Night

**Chapter 46: A Cold and Lonely Night**

Ovelia made the right decision.

Even if the knight's allegiances remained suspect, his capability to provide had not. The search along the river produced naught, even as sun set, night onset and rain began. Under another icy rainfall, the knight found a small cave, some dry fuel and started a fire. At the cave's mouth, just deep enough for rain to avoid, but close enough for smoke to escape.

She huddled herself together. Even with the fire, the night's chill stung still.

They sat across from one another, the fire between. A meager meal and drink excluding any conversation. The travel so far forcing her accustomed to hard ground.

Ovelia took small bites, chewed the tough, dry, salty meat as much as she could before forcing it down. She drank between each piece. It was the only way her stomach settled.

He somehow ate and drank with his helmet still atop. Water forced down through holes and food, torn into stripes, pushed in from below. His mouth, all she ever saw.

She couldn't help but ask. "Why do you never take your helmet off?"

"It's better this way," he answered.

That only meant he was hiding something. A face people might recognize.

"Even for eating?"

"No." His hands put down the remainder of his meal. "But we are far past the point of better ways."

There was more than just what occurred today. "What do you mean?"

"He was our passage into eastern Ivalice," he glumly said. "Without him…"

"You are not among the Order of the Southern Sky," she stated.

"He lives, of that I am sure," he ignored hers statement. "But we do not hold the luxury of seeking him any longer. Too many options to consider." He shook his head. "If way remains to see you safe I mean to take it."

After all his talk earlier, now he chose her over him? "You changed your mind, why?"

"I would ask you the same, really. You saved my life and now follow me. I cannot abandon you, after such lofty trusted placed upon my shoulders."

This man did not make consistent sense… But she lent aid to a man who'd kidnapped her, so mayhap they were the tiniest bit the same.

"So, why did you do it?"

"Pardon?" she replied.

"Aid me, on the bridge," he clarified. "We have not been precisely open with you and those were Northern Sky knights offering naught but pleasantries."

"Oh…" It was an answer she could not give. "You went so far for me. I think, _too_ far, if it was just to be a simple kidnapping." _As simple as kidnapping royalty was._ "You could have ran, saved yourselves. But your friend tried to take that knight with him. You hurt yourself greatly to stand between them and I." She frowned.

He looked at her. Some thought or another swimming in his head. "We had planned to unveil the truth when no pursuit challenged us, yet now here we sit." He sighed. "Your Highness, we came here to seek your cooperation. The White Lion moves against you, the Black Lion would use you. We'd seek to be your allies."

"By taking me to Duke Goltanna? By kidnapping? By taking me from my guards?"

"Were the world so kind to not require such actions. But our way would have been best."

No, there was another way… "I may seek sanctuary with the Church."

"The Church?" he sounded mystified.

"They are beyond the reach of either Lion. Lionel would be not far south, and Cardinal Delacroix is a renowned hero of the Fifty Years' War, and friend to the Crown." A man of the Gods would not use her name, as so many others.

Right…?

"You place stock in man you've not met."

"And I've not yet met you, either."

"That is true…"

But he did not see fit to reveal himself.

A bellow of thunder in the distance caused her jump.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"No!" she snapped. "No, I am not alright! Men I thought to trust come for me with ill-intent, men who would see me live but to use me. Man I do not even know my only protection!" She was cold, wet and miserable. She was tired, hungry and thirsty.

"I... forgive me…" he murmured.

She brought her knees in close, and rested her head upon them. "I never wanted this."

"Nor did I."

"Do not fain care, you intend use me like the rest."

He did not even bother to refute. "The Church is not the house of altruism you believe it."

Not even impugning the Church was beyond him. "Then where? If I believe you, where then do I head, free of others' strings?"

"Beyond the borders, some land where Atkascha gives naught but confused looks. Find work for a pretty girl and live and die in obscurity."

...That was far from the direction she thought it headed.

"You speak true of the Church's culpability then?"

"They would press you to align with Duke Goltanna and set the Lions to war. From the ashes, the Church would rise as peacemakers and new King."

She buried her face in her knees. She wanted to cry. If it was true, or not she didn't know.

Metal screeched over fire, and the familiar high pitched buzz of a grass whistle reached her ears. She looked up, to see the knight holding a blade of grass to his lips.

He made move to stop, but Ovelia bade him continue. That pleasant tune a warm relief in the night.

Her thoughts drifted to Alma Beoulve. Their time together at Orbonne. The levity of it all. The only time she did not worry about being a Princess.

She plucked a blade of grass for herself and brought it up to her lips. But the song that came out was flat. "A friend showed me how to do this once," she said. "But I'm afraid I've never quite gotten it right."

"Here," he leaned in closer, "just like this, you see?"

She moved her whistle similar to his and blew. A short, funny little noise. "It's really not so hard, is it?"

Their whistles sung in concert, into that cold, rainy night.

"I'd not thought to find the lady princess here." Voice pierced their refugee. Edge of fire's light stood three men, drenched in darkness and rain, caped as knights. "Be good knave and hand the lady over."

* * *

 **Author's Note: This whole little excursion is gonna be broken up oddly. Don't want to just have a battle from Ovelia's perspective, but I really needed to put a Chapter in from her POV and this fit best timing. Also fixed a small, but glaring error last Chapter.**

 **reyria: Thank you for your Review. Whew, double thanks for that. Having a balancing act between strong, yet fallible, has always been a tricky thing to write. I'm hoping to strike a balance between slow-to-trust and necessary-to-survive. Though, hopefully, it becomes real trust sooner rather than latter...  
**

 **I have actually read _Save the Queen_ , sometime back in 2011 when I first started my notes, but it's good enough for a reread.  
**

 **Trasgo Madaraz Artifex: Alrighty then! Thank you for your Review. Ramza has such versatile stats in-game, but he mostly gets shoved into melee beatstick roles. I've done some side-uses of magick, but he's definitely going to get to flex some big spells latter on.  
**

 **Zero Tribal: Thank you for your Review. Thanks for the praise! I think one of the more understated bits of White Lion-Church relations is during Dycedarg's conversation with Gaffgarion. Dycedarg is very confident in securing the Princess in Lionel. He's been working with the Church for a while, based on that. I really enjoyed writing Cletienne. Makes writing out that troublesome name worth it.  
**

 **Thank you two new Favorites and two new Follow. Thank you all for reading and have a considerate day.**


	48. Chapter 47: As Befits a Knight

**Chapter 47: As Befits a Knight**

Sword free from sheath and shield in hand Ramza bolted to his feet full and ready to slay the interlopers. His body cried in agony, his vision slightly blurred, his eyes heavy, his legs unsteady and his sword swayed. He'd drawn blade before he even confirmed who his foes were. Why? He'd chosen her over Delita at this point. Why?

Because it was right.

That, that was why he'd _always_ drawn his sword.

The three knights in the dark drew theirs for vile purpose. Were these the same three that retreated? Where then, their reinforcements? New swords as well; to his recall all but one knight left swordless.

But swords remained at the falls. He had not thought to dispose of them.

Mistake that may yet cost him their lives.

"Be on your way, boy, our business remains with the Princess alone," said the lead of the three. Rain fell down their mythril armor. Their capes soaked deep and stuck close. They'd pursued long in the rain. Sight fallen upon campfire in the dark, no doubt.

"Does your memory fail you? I've bested more than half your number myself and naught has changed in so little time," he retorted. "'Tis I who would let you go unmolested." If they'd come an hour later, or during Ramza's sleep their fates would be sealed already. Even now, the built fatigue from the day meant he was a harsh breeze away from falling down. Bluff was his best recourse.

"There is no bridge to aid you for duels one after another, brat," the knight spat. "You can barely stand."

"Yet you remain tentative enough for negotiations rather than simple attack," he smirked. "The quality of the Order of the Northern Sky falls low, it seems."

"White magick and potions only do so much. Kill him."

He could not emerge victorious with sword alone this time. Wind and storm forced jump a dangerous risk. But rainfall a boon for something else.

'Twould be slow, and to dip into his magicks so fully it might kill him for trying. But little better awaited not. A desperate gambit remained his only recourse. Time needed to be purchased.

"Drop your ruse, let mine ears hear honesty that you mean to take Her Highness's life."

"Ruse? Bah, whoever informed you such is as touched in the head as you are. The Princess comes with us."

Even this far they still would not disclose the truth? Either their loyalties were steeled beyond compare or plans had changed.

The three knights charged at him.

His shield blocked only a few blows before they shattered it. His sword found no purchase before they broke it. He could not dodge so many blades from so many angles. They bit his flesh, again and again. Lesson learned from the bridge to not let their tips stick in. A death by inches. Dragonheart remained his last defense.

In unison the three stabbed. An attempt to end it.

There was no dodging.

But he could take it in less vital areas.

He charged into them. Three swords pierced him. Everything tasted like death, but not close enough to be it. Not just yet.

"Die already."

"Then I die as befits a knight," Ramza choked out. Blood leaked from his lips. "Defending the weak. Thundaja."

The angry spirits of the world struck in their wrothen fury. The most high of lightning struck with force that moved the earth. Any cry of agony ruthlessly crushed by the bolts. Light so bright Ramza was blinded. The shock ran through him. The spell on cast would not strike its caster but metal stuck between target and him made excellent link. The rain upon men making it all the worse.

His vision returned, just barely. Long enough to see three corpses a mutilation of metal and fried flesh and all the grass on now-black stone blasted away. Rain hit him once more, but everything remained a noiseless void.

He tugged on one of the swords sticking out of him. Miracle of the Gods it had not melted.

But his hand was too numb and too weak. Everything, was… too… weak…

He blacked out.

* * *

Ovelia's vision returned, slowly. The image of lightning lingering on as it did. Her hearing came back. Buzzing, ringing like the grass whistle had never stopped.

Then the smell hit her. It came to mind the few times she approached the kitchens in the monasteries she stayed. Meat, cooked by fire and it smelled ever-so delightful.

Pleasant memories forever tainted now, with the sight of men dead. Burnt hair and melted metaled then assailed her nostrils. She may well have wretched had her stomach been filled.

She looked outwards. But the knight did not come back. He laid on his side, completely still. Rain pelted him.

He was her only protection left. But she could not heal the wounds he suffered. Potions and her limited magicks would be ineffective. She needed a phoenix down, that is, if he even still lived.

She left the cave (rain drenching her once more) to his side. Ground below him pooling red over blackened stone. She knew enough of medicine to not remove dangerous objects if one could not close wound right after. Eyes averted from dead men, she put her arms around the unknown knight and pulled.

But he would not budge.

She simply lacked the strength.

She could not save even a single life while so many died for her.

Even still, she tried.

He would not move. Even with the ground slick with disgusting blood and rain water there was nothing she could do. Her attempt only succeeding in causing her fall. Her cloak redder than before.

"Your Highness!"

Voice that cut through the darkness. Warm, yet firm and concerned.

Ovelia looked up, to see on chocobo the Lionsguard Captain. "Agrias!" Ovelia shouted in the storm.

Her knight dismounted (another chocobo nearby as well). "Thank the Gods you are well, Highness," said Agrias, running up. Her eyes passed the dead, dying and cave. "What happened?"

"We were accosted," said Ovelia. "He left the cave to protect me."

"At the cost of his life, then. Some nobility, for such a rogue."

"No, he yet lives."

"He is not long for this world with wounds as such. Come, we must away. We must rendezvous with Lavian, Alicia and Annabelle."

"I will not leave him!"

"Your Highness?"

Why… why did she care so much? Agrias was here and she was safe. Did, did she truly believe he was telling the truth? There was no cause for him to go so far if he told only lies, was there?

"Agrias, please," so improper for a Princess to ask, "please help me get him inside."

"Your Highness…" she stood reluctant. "Very well.." But concession brought her forth.

They moved him inside the cave's mouth. Close to the dying fire.

But it'd accomplished naught. They lacked any means to revitalize him. Nor Lavian, Alicia or Annabelle if by some fortune they arrived.

Even if she held magick within to cast aegis upon him once more it would not take effect on life so perilously close to its end. Simple shock of such may spell his end.

If he even yet lived.

With a fair bit of effort, and Agrias's instructions, Ovelia slowly pried his helmet off. The face unveiled was deathly pale, whiter than the swords robbing him of life. Face bloodied and bruised, his lips split open, and blonde hair streaked many times red.

And he breathed.

Shallow enough she thought her eyes mislead her, but air did escape him by the lightest touch.

"He lives." She breathed sigh of relief for reasons she barely understood. She laid his helmet besides and wiped her hands clean of sticky blood as best she could.

"Not for long, with wounds such as those," Agrias grimly commented.

"If he but regains consciousness, he may handle the matter himself."

"He is a white mage?"

"Yes," Ovelia nodded, "he was the one who healed Annabelle at Orbonne."

"That was not Elder Simon?"

"No, it was him. He bartered her life for my cooperation."

"How low," said Agrias. "Your Highness, what else occurred during your abduction?"

Ovelia recounted her experiences over the past days. Starting from Orbonne, the arrangement made with the knight, to the many nights spent cold and worried traveling on foot. Then the battle at the small bridge at Zeirchele Falls. The Southern Sky knight throwing himself off the bridge, and the injured one nearly killing himself to protect her. And doubly so now.

...And then came what the two knights' claimed. How Duke Larg and the Queen would end her life. How the Church would throw her to Duke Goltanna to help incite war for their own ends. The attack on Orbonne was by the White Lion disguised as Black.

Agrias most assured her to not trust the words of such rogues. And, at Ovelia's bidding, gave her own account of the past few days. Zalbaag Beoulve, was at Orbonne shortly after the kidnapping. In Dorter, by his assistance, they were near-accosted by sellswords.

But false Princess and false Lionsguard piqued Ovelia's interest too deep. She interrupted, "If Lionsguard flag flown false, why not the Southern Order's?"

"You pray to assign some grain of truth to his words. Your Highness."

Anything, to assign some reason for this she could agree with. "Would she the Princess for true…" Ovelia mused.

"My lady…"

"Men die, for the title I bear. Assigned at birth, beyond any contention. It is… It is more than I can stomach, sometimes." She huddled herself once more against the cave walls. "These are the first walls not called sacred I've been against. The first sight of sky beyond a window. All bought by the blood of others."

"'Tis not your fault, Your Highness. Blame is upon those who would use you for their own ends."

"I know… I know…" She wanted to smile for Agrias, showed her she cared. But the sick stink of the dead men prevented her still. "My whole life has been hemmed in by slate and stone and plots and politics." She plucked another blade of grass from nearby. "Did you know? Before I was at Orbonne, I was at another monastery? Always, always in a monastery." Even if she'd made it to Eagrose surely such a fate awaited her there. "It is not such a bad life, I see that now." She was always kept comfortable, well-fed. She learned of the Gods, of grace and many things a Queen-to-be would need. Much better than hard dirt and salty meat.

"Mayhap a better locale awaits you in Eagrose…" But even Agrias did not believe it.

Ovelia brought the blade of grass to her lips and blew. But it was the same off-tone she'd always done. "There was another girl at Orbonne," she said. "She taught me this, as we talked about our lives. Both of us, more time in sacred halls than not. A funny thing, so alike we were."

"Lady Alma, of House Beoulve, if I recall."

Ovelia nodded. "My only true friend." Agrias was her friend, but it would not be proper to say such. No matter how much she desired it. Ovelia looked at the knight. Was he still breathing, even now? "He said that Dycedarg Beoulve writes the plot to take my life."

"Lord Zalbaag seemed much furious at the situation. 'Twas only my rejection that a hundred knights did not ride with me."

"You were worried there were uncertain loyalties in the Northern Order?"

Agrias did, slowly, nod. "Duke Larg did not provide enough escort for you, Your Highness. Not enough to confirm the accusations against him, but enough to remain concerned."

"What then, do you suggest?"

"We know clear what Duke Goltanna would do, with you under his banner, Your Highness. Duke Larg's motives are… in doubt," she said as tactfully as she could muster. "I would second your decision to seek sanctuary with the Church. You've long been in their care, and neither Duke would dare rouse their ire."

To yet another monastery. She'd not realized it full then… but it would always be her fate. She could not offer any resistance to Agrias's words. It was a sound plan. "Let us be on our way, then."

"Sleep, Your Highness. Nothing more shall distress you whilst I remain on watch."

Agrias looked far in need of sleep as well. But there would be no arguing with her on this.

Ovelia attempted to whistle through the grass once more, but the song remained wrong…

"Press it closer to your upper lip…"

Words of surprise drew attention to knight lay bleeding, but with eyes painfully opened.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: And then I POV change in-chapter anyway...**

 **Archaicx1: Thank you for your Reviews. Prologue: The "Succession Wars" will be a direct result of the claim on the Crown. Don't want to give toooo much away. Chapter 2: Well, that's been answered by now. Chapter 3: Will do! Chapter 5: Maybe!**

 **Thank you new Favorite. Thank you all for reading and have a Xul day!**


	49. Chapter 48: The Undying

**Chapter 48: The Undying**

He lived.

He did not know how, but he lived.

Paradise surely wouldn't hurt so much and anything worse would hurt more.

Muddled words were exchanged. Cold air and warm wafted into his face. He laid on his right arm. Every breath he took sent new strike of pain to places he'd never thought to name before.

How was he alive? Dragonheart was not effective to ward off death with three swords pierced into him.

Even opening his eyes was tiring. Everything a blur in fading light and night's darkness. Two figures sat nearby.

A poor whistle earned some measure of concentration on his part. He spoke, through cut lip and throat quenched in his own blood.

"Press it closer to your upper lip…" He could not see her, but 'twas what she did not account for before.

Though why that remained his first words he could not say.

"You're awake..." Her Highness gasped.

Not for long with everything pained as it was. "To my surprise as well…" He could speak in clear enough sentences. He was not out long.

"I am informed you may yet tend your own wounds," said an unfamiliar voice belonging to a woman. "Are you able?"

"No." Chakra required concentration enough that he could not muster with swords sticking in him, or every point of his body throbbing. White magick required a well night's rest before he could tap into such ethereal methods. Potions remained his only recourse, but what he scavenged was minor. Far from capable of managing all he sustained.

All three could close torn flesh, but could not replenish lost blood. 'Twould still take fair fortune to survive a night. And weeks beyond for life within to return to full force.

He blinked until vision clearer returned.

His helmet was off.

Neither should recognize his face, but if perchance some Northern Sky did… (Delita refused helm with claim no knight would remember commoner's face.)

As shapes came more to focus he finally recognized the female knight sharing their cave. Should be no surprise that it was Lionsguard. Whom else would Her Highness trust? But the Captain of the Orbonne guard, as well. He was rather surprised she hadn't put him to sword already for daring lay hands on her lady.

(His head was rather clear in spite of his injuries, wasn't it?)

"How have you reached us with such alacrity, dame knight?" he asked. 'Twas obvious but…

"Chocobo, but what matter is it to you?" she answered. Not nearly the icy response he deserved.

"Choco Cure."

"Hm? Ah, but of course."

The yellow breed of chocobo, the most common, could offer curative abilities on par with a monk's chakra. Blacks couldn't, and reds only under specific circumstances. Lord Father's white would return him standing unharmed as well as an elixir, but such specific breeding was unique.

"But, before I do such, I demand of you first."

"Agrias, please."

"I'm sorry, my lady, but I cannot let this pass until I've confirmed the doubts he raised myself."

His body spasmed and a bolt of pain ran alongside every vein. Best do this quickly then. "The Northern Sky and White Lion remain your enemies: to end Her Highness. The Church of Glabados means to set her in the Black Lion's camp and have them go to war. I am no knight of the Southern Sky or sworn man of Duke Goltanna."

"How then," the knight called Agrias said, "does a man who claims no cause find such plans?"

"My missing friend sought me out for this. Unveiled the truth to me."

"And you trust him so easily?"

"He is the only man I do trust."

Words caused pause between questions. Had he convinced her? "Why then should we trust you?"

"I've well seen the depths of depravity the Northern Sky falls to, in order to secure itself, and I want none of it. They hire Fell Knight of the Eastern Sky to rescue Her Highness."

"The Order of the Eastern Sky was disbanded after the war."

"But its knights sell their foul craft to others, 'twould seem."

"That knight," Her Highness spoke up, "he did not deny being… Eastern Sky."

Another brief pause before the lady knight spoke. "Say the matter of the Northern Sky sounds true, then by what evidence do you accuse the Church of Glabados?"

There was no right answer he could give to that. Mayhap with Her Highness, shaken as she was, but a resolute Lionsguard would never heed his words.

Still then, he did try. "Interests within the Church would see Lions go to war. Should you broach Lionel for aid you'd find sword at neck and back. Marching to the Black Lion under duress."

"You impugn the honor of the most sacred institution in Ivalice."

"Only men, and if anything history taught us is true, it is that men are fallible."

"And then you have us trust fallible man."

Ramza wanted to shake his head. But twisting his neck sent a crash of pain down his backside. "There are no words I know that would convince you."

"You have not. If Your Highness agrees?"

"Yes…"

"Unfortunate," Ramza murmured. Mayhap she'd be kidnapped again, bringing her to Duke Goltanna. Or slain in sleep for going off-script, as it were. Pray then, he did, for Delita to find him first.

Nevertheless, the lady knight came to assist him. Off her shoulder he rode, his feet finding minor purchase on stone.

Outside, it still rained. Chocobos sitting outside, looks of annoyance.

And one was Boco. Delita's chocobo held a specific scar over his left eye and 'twas too similar to be any other beast. Answer to question he'd not thought of in a time.

The Lionsguard pulled free the swords from Ramza. Grunt of pain accompanying each. They'd melted partially with his coat. His hands came quick to staunch blood.

With a bark of order the two birds stood and came over. Whatever magicks monsters did possess coming to his rescue.

Wounds serious and not closed quick. Aided with potion after time.

His flesh mended, his body weak. But he lived.

With sword point to his throat.

Lionsguard mythril would run him through easy were it not for precise control of the lady knight.

With her free hand she tossed pile of leather strips at his feet. A mash belts and fittings from saddle and packs. The intent clear.

"I've little stomach for running through man who lacks means to defend himself," she said. "Tie yourself the night away and seek your passage after our departure."

Any such knots he could make would be simple to undo with all the arts at his disposal. "You've no desire to behold me to justice?"

"We'll intrude enough on His Eminence's graces. Foul your intentions or not, you've sacrificed much for Her Highness. That deserves some measure of kindness."

Were all knights as virtuous as she. "My thanks then."

He fastened his hands tied, and she secured him more. Tight enough to edge just shy of painful yet after day's trials 'twas nothing.

Fire died out shortly after, as did his means to stay awake. Thoughts before last how to secure safety of Her Highness.

* * *

He knew not how he lived.

The fire within burned hotter than the cold without. River near-to-ice dragged him so far south. Air, but desperate, ragged gasps as he fought water and weight. Body broken by rock and stone yet he flailed on.

Darkness preceded grip on solid land. Night so cold his armor glinted frost. White magicks staunched what they could, yet such beginner spells could but put poor stop to the wounds he received.

Ramza would be north and certainly marching south to find him.

But there was light south. Come from above, large enough to be visible this far away. One location came to mind.

The edges of the Castled City of Zaland.

He was in Lionel.

There would be chocobos, food and shelter south.

He'd head north, right after.

Delita Herial hobbled towards the lights of Lionel.

* * *

Author's Notes: So glad I had this in backlog after the disaster the latter half of the week ended up being...

vianmeor: Thank you for your Review. It's gonna go plenty of interesting places, that I can promise.

Sethlas: Thank you for your Review. Definitely a short and sweet kind of fight there!

Hussain64: Thank you for your Review. Here it is! Thanks for the praise.

Thank you new Favorite. Thank you all for reading and have an illness-free day.


	50. Chapter 49: Crossed Paths

**Chapter 49: Crossed Paths**

Sleep brought on by exhaustion proved the best Ramza had in a week. Even plagued by murky dreams that stung unpleasant, if vague. Like sifting through a mucky stream filled with solid objects.

Morning was brought on by the noise of others: Her Highness and the Lionsguard.

They made ready the chocobos for their journey already. Even with hasted legs he could not match the mounts. Less so with battle pains a constant blanket over him.

They rode the same bird, using Boco as a spare. And they were away, heading… north?

The other Lionsguard were not with her. They moved to a rendezvous. He may yet have a moment…

But for the time he had to undo his bonds. Would he have understood teleport before departure.

His sword, and all the melted ones, had vanished. Like taken or removed by the lady knight. Black magicks did not cast precise enough to undo. Aurablast might work, were his hands free in the first place.

Well, it would impair his running a tad, but 'twas not a significant disadvantage. With dragoon jumps to relocate and spells he could manage any single encounter. Such a tactic was unwise while shielding Her Highness.

But, what now? Delita remained unaccounted for. In morning light, both directions presented themselves viable. Any more south ran risk of entering Lionel, and Gryphon patrols. North begat following Her Highness, of course.

North presented itself the more attractive option. He prayed it the right one.

He gathered his bloodstained helm and replaced it upon his head. With spell of haste upon himself, he ran his aching and hungry body north.

* * *

Climbing the small mountain the Castled City was built upon was the most painful step to date on the journey for Delita. The instant his head hit the pillow of his room he was asleep.

Morning came, sore and still tired but he pushed it all aside for his goal. His poor state and well-off stature purchased himself the room for naught but promise of payment later. Desperation not only his recourse.

After waking he went to store. The gold armor sold well for coin, enough for lodging payment, chocobos and riding kit, food and drink. He'd but the most basic equipment left after. Thick layers of leather padding on his chest, a simple cheap iron long sword and a small rounded-edged triangular escutcheon shield.

Only his leather jerkin and Southern Sky cape—carefully hidden, remained in his care.

An hour before midday he was ready to set from the northern gate. Though an actual "gate" was conspicuously absent. The yellow-stone walls were cracked and worn down. Reconstruction of the city did not seem among the Church's priorities.

Delita headed down earthen stone ramp outside city limits.

"Oh? Now that face passes familiar. Ser Herial."

A peculiar thing to say considering Delita faced away. He turned about face towards Ser Beowulf Cadmus and a half-dozen red-caped Gryphon knights behind him. "Ser Cadmus, what fortunate meeting, and unfortunate passing, I am needed elsewhere." The Gryphon Captain had met face-to-face with everyone responsible for escorting Lady Dueller to Mullonde.

"Gods," Beowulf gasped in surprise, "you're pale as bone. What ailment befouls you?"

"'Tis not so bad," he lied. "A poor night's drink. I shall work it away during this day. I must be going, unless there's particular reason you beset me?"

Beowulf shifted somewhat awkwardly as he asked, "Is Ser Lugria nearby? I was ordered to provide him escort to Lionel Castle. His arrival was expected today."

"He'll be along shortly, of that I am sure." No more time could be wasted here…

"You've nowhere left to run!" a man's voice broke over the conversation. "All we want is the stone—we needn't take your life."

Seems some trouble in town. Perfect chance to make an escape. "You've your job to attend to, Ser Cadmus."

"So it seems," he said with a dour face. A nod of his head sent men back towards the gate.

"What stone? I have no stone!" another voice from within, a younger man.

"Do not play the fool with me, Mustadio!" the first returned, and identified the second. "Do you forget that we hold your father?" And with such barbarity. "It's simple. Give us the auracite, and your father lives. Right, then. Seize him!"

Delita froze. He turned to the city, to see a young man with yellow shirt and blue trousers leap upon its walls. The one called Mustadio. Who held sacred auracite.

"Auracite?" Beowulf gasped. "Ser Herial I'm afraid I must conscript your aid for matter such as this."

Damnation he didn't have time for this! "You've your Gryphons." A miserable attempt to avoid this.

"You beheld auracite's importance with your own eyes."

There was no escaping this situation without seeming suspicious. "Very well then."

"I have a message for your keeper, Ludovich!" yelled Mustadio. "Tell him that if he lays so much as a finger on my father, he'll never see the auracite again!"

The accusation proved reciprocated.

"Ludovich?" said Beowulf. "The Baert Trading Company then."

Delita recalled the misbegotten rumors, and Deitrich's employ.

Delita, on back of chocobo, and Beowulf followed the knights back within. Red-roofed houses in the distance, dark stone flagstones underfoot.

What faced them was a lesser force. Two knights clad in green capes, two black mages in green robes and two women archers with green chest guards. Each of them shared an expression of disbelief and fear like the Ordallian army had just lain siege to the city once more.

The Gryphon knights rested hands on their swords but had not drawn as of yet.

"Gryphons!?" the man above shouted. "Thank the Gods!"

"Employees of the Baert Trading Company," said Beowulf, "throw down your arms and surrender. You're far outmatched here."

The enemy kit was a mash of iron to gold. Baert, if it was behind this, offered good gil for his underlings.

The archers and one of the black mages carefully lowered their weapons. But the lead knight, clad best in golden armor, shot sour look back at them. "Death awaits us in their clutches or if we retreat without our prize!"

"I've no desire to execute random men."

The lead knight gave insulting laugh. "Profaning holy artefacts is worthy of death. I do not work in Lionel without learning its laws. We're dead men either way—I intend to try for life through taking yours!"

So quickly he went from not taking Mustadio's life to taking the Gryphon Captain's.

His bluster convinced the other caped knight and remaining black mage to offer steadfast refusal. The archers and other wizard backed away as half the Baert Trade Company employees made their reckless charge.

The two knights were quickly blunted down by the red-caped Gryphons. The lead Baert knight was well-equipped, better than the Gryphons' mythril, but sheer numbers would wear him down.

His accomplice was a mix of fuller mythril plate and other bits of bronze. He faltered more against the foes engaging him.

Numbers were simply not on their side.

Mayhap they prayed their black mage some manner of miracle worker. His hands were raised and his words went to high-powered chant.

Delita kicked his chocobo around the melee and brought his sword to fore. With chocobo might behind his thrust he could end the man in one blow.

Knowing that, the black mage backed away. 'Twas no use.

More so when gunshot went out and black mage's ankle was struck weak.

On his knees, fear in his brown eyes, the sword thrust ended him swiftly.

Delita reined his chocobo around. The Gryphons had cut down both knights with naught but small scraps and one limp arm in wounds. They rounded up the other three who offered no resistance.

The young man above gave expressive sigh of relief. Beowulf bid him descend and he gratefully did. Delita rode over to the conversation.

"You've my thanks, Ser knight. Mustadio Bunansa."

"Beowulf Cadmus, Captain, Gryphon Knights of Lionel."

"Delita Herial."

"Thank the Gods for this meeting, ser." His trousers—overalls, Delita now noticed, were stained with dark splashes all across. Some manner of laborer, it seemed. His gun was much simpler than Barich's gaudy designs and now sat in a sheath its own on his right hip. His bright blonde hair was pulled back into a tail behind him and his brown eyes looked on with a faith renewed. "Those louts of the Baert Trading Company have pursued me since Goug."

"A fair ways aday from Goug we are," committed Cadmus. "I heard your shouts above, and auracite remains certain such thing man desperate to claim."

"Well, that is…" Mustadio trailed off. Such matter he did not see fit to scream from the walls now.

Delita had the foul feeling he was about to be dragged into stone intrigue once more. And marching to entire city of metal men housing who-knows how many Lucavi was the second-to-last thing he ever wanted.

"Ser Cadmus, if there is nothing more, I must be on my way."

"I'm afraid matters such as this supercede any others, Ser Herial. I must insist." The Gryphon captain frowned as he delivered the news but it helped Delita's spirits none.

This would disrupt the High Confessor's plans. The auracite did not need his escort in particular. But there was simply no matter by which he could convince Ser Cadmus to let him on his way. No minor enlisted like himself would be fit to use command from Grand Master or High Confessor.

He could make attempt to ride away… the Cardinal might cover for him as such then… And the Gryphons would need sleep between Zaland and Lionel Castle.

This was a situation with no optimal escape. Such was his life.

"Then I am at your service," Delita grimly answered. Ramza's skill was enough to guard Her Highness, and Delita was certain Ramza would spend days searching the river for him. With alacrity enough he could return north.

"If I may meet with His Eminence, Cardinal Delacroix, I can reveal the answers you seek," said Mustadio, nervous.

"There remains no need for secrecy here," said Beowulf. "Safety is guaranteed, you have my word."

"'Tis not only my life in peril. Goons of the Company captured my father; they demand trade: auracite for his life and safe return. I wish to implore Cardinal Delacroix for aid."

"Blackguards," Beowulf scoffed. "I'm certain His Eminence will hear your plea, Mustadio."

"Thank you, thank you!" the man bowed in reverence and relief.

"We'll leave in a moment, read yourselves for travel." Beowulf departed to his other knights. Giving orders to them as they secured the Baert fighters for transport south.

Delita cursed his luck. His goal to but use the Church for his own ends saw him used once more.

* * *

"Agrias."

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"I think… I think he'll follow us." She shifted nervously in the saddle.

"The chocobos will well outspeed him." Only a few minutes riding at canter had put that cave long behind them.

"Not just north," Her Highness shook her head, "but to Lionel, as well."

He possessed a dogged determination, that was certain. "Mayhap, but we shall be ever the swifter. Do not worry."

"I pray you are right."

Mayhap the fool's choice to let the young man live, if he worried Her Highness so.

The chocobos rode up a slope upwards and an elevated plateau consisting of yet more grassy stone. Cold, wet river air splashing face and nose.

But as they continued forward, sound of metal striking metal met their ears. Agrias kicked the chocobo into a full gallop and they rose to the crest of the next hill.

Down below, in minute's ride, were three Lionsguard clashing mythril with knights bearing crests of the Order of the Northern Sky. Chocobos laid dead and blood flowed free from both sides. Nine Northern knights waged combat against Agrias's flagging knights.

Any thoughts vindicating the unknown knight were pushed aside. "Your Highness, mount the other chocobo. If this fight favors us naught—flee." The Princess was no riding expert but she was versed enough.

Her Highness descended with a nod. "Be safe, Agrias."

"Live long, my lady." Agrias drew her sword and kicked the chocobo into a gallop. It raced down the hill.

The Lionsguard were falling back in formation against the onslaught of the Northern Sky. Every time the off-white-caped knights attempted to fall on Lionsguard flank, they fell back. But doing so opened them to renewed aggression with an enemy constantly rotating its front line.

The Northern Sky noticed her approach and disengaged, concentrating their formation. Cavalry were most effective falling on flanks but by pulling back as they did, they left themselves vulnerable to Holy Sword.

Her mythril risen to the sky, magick swirling into it. Slashed downwards, shards of ice images barraging the central line of Northern Sky.

Cries of vengeance and anger from enemies. Cries of remembrance and relief from allies.

Judgment Blade had frayed their foeman but sent none to another life. The Northern ranks reformed into a loose square to minimize Holy Blade skills and advanced once more.

If she did not worry for her knights she could simply strike and retreat with Judgement Blades. But as it was… Agrias relined herself with her weary but cheery knights. "Lionsguard, fall back," she gave in measured voice.

As one they made their retreat. The Northern Sky marshaled a chase whence they realized, but Agrias clashed with them as they attempted such. She could land no debilitating blows, but neither could they strike her down. Aided more, as the holy spell of Aegis lent by Her Highness gave her boons of protection, speed and life.

Agrias could no longer impede their advance and set to flight. Lionsguard made their stand at hill's low. Her Highness astride chocobo above. Agrias commanded her chocobo cure the Lionsguard but then the Northern Sky were upon them once more.

Lionsguard packed into formation while Northern Sky surrounded them. Four dueled quickly in front, exchanging sword blows, mythril striking mythril. Those on the flank turned on Agrias's chocobo. The beast pecking back as it could but no monster matched human skill. And as much as they tried, the Northern Sky reached around. They were surrounded.

Lavian stabbed one man, blocked a blow to her head, but was hit twice more to her side and back. She swung wildly to clear space but her arm was struck twice more and her grip slipped. With shield gripped in two hands she bashed aside any who dared come closer.

Alicia bested one foe, but in his last grasp he took her sword with him. Fearing blade no longer, another knight loosed a furious number of blows that shattered her shield and arm. With her remaining fist, she smashed an enemy knight's own and loosed a free sword which she took back into the fight.

Annabelle, youngest among them, faltered swiftly. Against three more swords she but slightly deflected one. Sword in her thigh as she fell to the ground, her wild swings dissuaded any advance.

Agrias, still blessed with Her Highness's magicks while astride the chocobo, managed well better. She let Northern swords strike her legs to strike their heads right back. Theirs but a scratch, hers putting two enemy knights down.

They were too close together for Judgement Blade, the holy art did not discern friend and foe. Agrias reined her chocobo in between her knights and the enemies, but the sheer number of attacks — that the Northern Sky were too willing to take — slowly eroded her defenses even with the spells aiding her.

Her chocobo was cut from beneath her as she cut down a third knight. She pulled herself free from the saddle just in time to block a deathblow aimed at Lavian, but a fifth stab took her back. Whirling about, Agrias forced off the foe, but the holy knight had to move to prevent Alicia's head from rolling. Her mythril shield shattered as she did, and enemy sword bite her thigh.

Gritting teeth through the pain, Agrias countered into the knight that stabbed her. Her thrust far more effective and piercing right into his throat. She let the sword free and took the enemy's. Sword dripping with her own blood, she swung at the next knight. He blocked with his shield and pinned her blade with his own.

The enemy hit her backside near ten times as she struggled to free her blade. They'd focused their sole attention left on her now. Even as the other Lionsguard forced themselves back on their feet into combat they were kept at bay.

Six enemies in fair health against four Lionsguard nearing the end.

Agrias broke free the deadlock and with sideways slash took another foeman down.

She dove forward before more swords invited themselves to her flesh.

She bled from a dozen wounds from minor to major. Her arms and legs retained fair use for the moment, but she was slowly losing feeling in her left leg. She had to be the aggressor here.

Agrias moved to rendezvous with her knights. Two Northern Sky in good condition making ready to end the Lionsguard. Even if her ladies would not go easy.

A shout of warning put Northern on guard before Agrias could take advantage. She maneuvered to put both foes in line to force it to a duel. Even wounded as she was, she held confidence she was the better swordswoman.

She swiftly landed two blows on his mythril shield and knocked his left arm aside. When he swung about with sword in his right, she dodged it by a hair and came at him from below. She pierced the weaker sides of his armor and pulled out, sword now bloody with half the enemy knights. He moved his shield to cover his new weakness, and Agrias stepped to her right, around the sloppily changed guard. She cut his left knee out and forced him down before finishing him with a blow to the back of his neck.

She couldn't rest. _Five more_. She moved forward against the last knight standing between her and the Lionsguard—but her left leg gave.

Time enough for the four knights behind to reach. She had, mayhap, one last grasp of defiance.

She looked up the hill, to shout for Her Highness to flee, if she remained there still, so she would not have to watch Lionsguard die.

Instead she was stopped cold by whom she saw above.

Her Highness had not fled already. And now, besides her, looking down, was her kidnapper.

She could not muster any proper thought at the sight.

Blue light of restoration relieved her, some small scraps closing and her burning leg soothing somewhat. The other Lionsguard were aided the same—but not the Northern Sky between them.

Agrias spared a glance straight up to see it. A moogle. The extinct race of child-sized, white-furred beings now only called upon through summoning magicks.

The creature faded away after its duty.

Thoughts on it could be saved for another time. Agrias moved towards the last knight between her and her dames.

'Twas time for the enemy to be surrounded. Their foeman lacked greatly the skills needed to survive such a situation and they cut him down with ease.

Agrias ordered them back in formation. Four Lionsguard against four Northern Sky. The enemy's condition was significantly better in all ways save ability. The wounds besetting the Lionsguard once more closed by burst of heal from above. Agrias's own near gone now, with addition of Her Highness's Aegis.

Three Northern Sky dashed forward to meet Lionsguard mythril. Fourth knight up the hill. Towards Her Highness and the kidnapper.

Northern Sky bodies prevented Agrias from pursuit. With repurposed mythril, her knights held their own and soon enough the battle reached its inevitable conclusion.

Agrias did not rest. The moment the three Northern Sky fell she ran towards the fourth uphill. But he came tumbling down the hill, already dead.

Up above the kidnapper was free of his bonds, mythril sword now in hand. Lionsguard ready to make their charge at him already.

Agrias waved them stop. "What do you intend to do?" The kidnapper could so easily have just taken Her Highness and fled. Could do so, even now.

The man looked between everyone, and the river still nearby. The sword in his hand dropped. "Talk."

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Should be back to the more hectic, constant updates after today.  
**

 **reyria: Thank you for your Review. Ramza's got a mash-up of a LOT of different jobs at this point. Though some are more complete, others are wildly focused and some just have bare minimum. His strength is in his versatility but anyone focused on one job would usually best him. Gylda, for example, is a way, way better white mage than him and Cletinne is still a better mage and Isilud has better jumps.  
**

 **edward sekai:** ** **Thank you for your Review.** Folmarv has not been possessed by Hasmal as of yet! Class-wise he's a mish-mash of pretty much everything with different varieties of skill.  
**

 **Hussain64:** ** **Thank you for your Review.** Here it is! Though two days after asked, ahhh.  
**

 **Spiritblade:** ** **Thank you for your Review.** There's some Talk to be had. Whom to trust hehehe.  
**

 **Thank you three new Favorites and two new Follows. That's a lot! Thank you all for reading and have an illustrious day.**


	51. Chapter 50: Talk

**Chapter 50: Talk**

"Speak then," the Lionsguard captain demanded of him.

"In moment's time." Ramza first called forth the esper moogle once more. Blue light taking care of wounded knights. "Best blood remain inside, no?" His own loss made his knees weak. Past day's turmoil lent his whole body stiff and tired. Lionsguard needed to be at their best for oncoming difficulties.

"Enough stalling, make your purpose plain or begone."

So much for placating her. "Circumstances should be clear now: The Northern Order is your enemy."

"And you speak as friend?" one of the other Lionsguard said, the very same laid injured at Orbonne. "Do not spread such japes."

"Were I enemy 'twould be simple thing to abscond with Her Highness once more, and left you for rot." 'Twas not how he wanted this to continue. "I speak now, in good faith, that my intentions are true."

"You bartered my life to coerce Her Highness," spat the Lionsguard, "'truth' is that you are but simple charlatan."

"Annabelle, please, stop," Princess Ovelia ordered. The fiery Lionsguard backed down, but kept a glare going at him. "I would hear his words."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

"If you do not fight for Duke Goltanna, whom do you pledge your sword to?"

 _Righteousness._ "To you, Your Highness, if you'd have me."

"And if I accept such pledge, do you reveal your friend, name and source for disbelief?"

"That, I cannot do." 'Twas much the same as announcing himself Beoulve.

She shook her head. "Then I cannot put faith in your words."

Marching the Lionsguard straight to their deaths. Were it not for that, the burdens of travel might force him south to Lionel. Mayhap words to convince Cardinal Delacriox this was a boon? Having other people to coerce—

 _No_. That was thinking like Dycedarg.

Violence was no solution for earning trust now. There seemed little choice but to let them learn the foul truth themselves.

But if they did, then his status would be outed anyway.

He thought alike Dycedarg more than he realized. What matter his name for others' lives?

He pulled free his helmet, holding it tight between hands stained with dried blood. The cold, thick air refreshing to taste over blood and metal.

"I know the Church is duplicitous because they were the ones who ordered me to kidnap Her Highness." The truth more refreshing than the air.

"What?" Word come from all.

"If their intent so pure we could have come to your face with such suspicions. Instead, 'twas take her away, leave you for dead and bring Her Highness to Lionel. My missing friend revealed the truth that she'd be bound for Duke Goltanna if any breath of life remained."

The Lionsguard regarded him with a fierce countenance. Their captain spoke, "This new tale holds no more water than your last. You again make claim whilst lacking proof and I tire of this cycle."

The Lionsguard's distrust were stronger than a castle's walls. There was no convincing her. Might he simply follow them into Lionel Castle? One chocobo could not be shared amongst five and Zaland was not a tiresome ways south...

Delita remained a concern as well. He'd seen no hair of his friend on the northern pass once more. That left south, or a watery grave.

"Even if by some manner what you speak is true," said Her Highness. "You simply have us following the Church's accused plan anyway."

"Delivering Her Highness to Duke Goltanna all but insures a war," the Lionsguard reiterated. "You may have my thanks for your aid, but I cannot let that happen."

"I thought the Church free of the grips of nobility," said Ramza, "an institution that worked for a better Ivalice without the trappings of political gain and vile practice. I did good under their service. But I will not stand idly by if they mean to exploit war for their own ends."

"As you mean to do as well," the Lionsguard accused. An arrow to the heart of the matter.

There was no answer but… "Yes." What choice did remain without war?

No, there remained another answer. One so clear and obvious he chided himself the fool for not coming to it sooner. If but only those who were Her Highness's enemies were to be dispatched, war could be avoided.

But how else but war to dethrone Her Majesty? Duke Larg and Dycedarg. Even mayhap Zalbaag.

Did he have a chance? Did he have a choice?

"Then only one options remains," he said as he fastened his helm back on. The Lionsguard drew mythril once more. "No, no, I mean no ill towards you."

"Then what do you intend?" asked Her Highness.

"Go after those responsible."

"You're mad," shouted the Lionsguard captain. "You cannot simply walk into Eagrose and meet with Duke Larg and Lord Dycedarg."

Bluntly, he could. Dycedarg would see him, and there would be way to have audience with Duke Larg if he strained himself. 'Twould not be hard deception, if he made claim of the Princess's location — lying of course — whilst feigning ignorance at their intent. The Queen would be a more difficult foe to reach, behind legion of Lionsguard mythril… Well, that could wait, he had days to plan.

"Such concern is welcome," he said. "But that way is mine own alone if our ways do part. Stay safe." His armor would sell well enough for a dagger's dirty work. Fists remained an option as well.

Delita remained his goal first though. He'd flipped his concern, four times now? Five? Humorous, in its own way.

He made turn southwards and walked past Her Highness. His legs took shaken steps on fatigued body. He'd need well rest before making his attempt.

"Hold," she commanded him. He faced her once more as she asked, "Is your name free to be given now?"

He was to be dead man walking in their eyes surely. "Ramza." Best not be Beoulve when one Lord Brother was her enemy.

"Your friend?"

"Fulke," he lied. He'd not drag Delita's name into this without consent.

"Now that you have my thanks for true, Ser Ramza," she earnestly praised him.

Two years ago such would have swelled him with pride at being such an exemplar of knighthood to receive Royal decree.

Pessimism took its toll and he felt only cold. (The wind did not help.)

"If we make east, could you find us safe audience with Duke Goltanna?"

He blinked several times. Cleared his head, sucked in a deep breath of air. He had not misheard. His mind reeled about as if under a spell of slowness. "P-pardon?" He half-stammered out.

Lionsguard shouts, unfocused, from below.

Her Highness repeated herself. Her face lined with worry and distrust.

But he had no answer. "My friend could." Was she considering this seriously? Or was it just expanding grasp at knowledge? "Were we to locate him, I'm sure we could traverse Fort Besselat."

The Lionsguard Captain spoke up at him. "The Northern Order patrols in unknown numbers; 'twould take days to scour river's shores for a man who may yet rest at its bottom."

The thought was not beyond his consideration, no matter how much he believed it unlikely. "Then I am at a loss." There was no way he could get through Besselat and if they approached there was no guarantee of anything. He knew not a single man in the Southern Sky to trust, or who would trust him.

No, that was wrong. There was someone who owed him a debt of life. "I may have way to meet with Marquis Elmdore, should we travel into Limberry."

"The Marquis?" repeated Her Highness.

"I've had the pleasure of his company before," _under terrible circumstances_ , "and a Templar's credentials shall see much success meeting with an ordained Inquisitor."

"After all your accusations of the Church you'd have us seek shelter in a man under their wings?" poised the Lionsguard Captain.

"I pray he has more loyalty to the Crown than the Church, or, at least, to Duke Goltanna. Else I've little more than faint hope to meet directly with the Duke." Simply shouting she was the Princess was more like to get them accosted, even with Lionsguard accompanying. "The choice then, is yours, Your Highness."

"I stand by your decision my lady." The other Lionsguard supported their leader. "But I place my offer on Lionel."

"I understand, Agrias."

Right, he'd heard the captain's name earlier. He'd simply forgot in the circumstances.

"Alicia, Lavian, Annabelle, your thoughts?" asked Her Highness. Curious indeed to seek such opinions, but prudent.

"I do not trust him," the Lionsguard Annabelle answered. "I stand by the Captain's recommendation."

"Approaching Zeltennia would require circling many days north and around the Besselat sulice and lake," said another of the Lionsguard. "'Twould be best to approach from the sandwastes, but we lack preparation and supplies enough for our numbers. I do not recommend it, Your Highness."

The last Lionsguard looked at her compatriots with an unfortunate sense of grimace. "I fear I will have to act Lucavi's advocate here," she said. (Ramza recalled the saying as a name for one of the minor offices in the Church that debated the canonicity of Saints.) "If this man's words stay true then Limberry is our only safe recourse. If the Church is innocent of wrongdoing when we seek their protection, the sheer weight of the Northern Order could crush them."

"They would not dare attack the Church so brazenly."

"Nor would we think them assassinate you, Highness." Each word pained the Lionsguard to say. "We cannot underestimate the debauchery they might dare commit. Only the Southern Order holds number enough to oppose the Northern on equal ground."

"I'd rather this not come to war…"

Everyone offered their little nods of approval for that. But the same Lionsguard was the only one to offer words, "The scales of justice balance in your favor, Your Highness. 'Tis not the battle you went to, but it came to you. _Will_ , keep coming to you."

He'd not expected an ally in the Lionsguard but was welcome relief after all the dire tidings.

Her Highness visibly fought back a sigh. "We make travel to Limberry."

Training and poise won out over disappointment and Lionsguard met her ears with "yes my lady"s.

This was a victory. A lousy one, but he had to accept it for what it was.

Quick scavenge of useful gear and bodies laid to rest. Chocobo saddle bags pried free and the departed beasts set aside. Too damaged for any use but monster bait. No sword offered to Ramza before way set north.

Path laid best of what Delita told him of Northern patrols. Torn in two directions, he indeed did follow them north.

One last thought of lost friend:

 _Stay safe, Delita._

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Talk indeed. He gave what she asked...**

 **Savaris: Thank you for your Review. Wow, that's a whole lot of reading right there. A fair bit of people do seem to be reading it, according to behind-the-scenes graphs. Totally get reading something and not commenting, do that plenty myself, haha. Plus there's a bit of a slow start, some random, uneven pacing and directioning. Hopefully it's getting better now. I'll keep on keepin' on!**

 **Thank you new Follow. Thank you all for reading and have a fiery day.**


	52. Chapter 51: Southern and Northern Cross

**Chapter 51: Southern Cross and Northern Cross**

Travel south to Lionel would take two days departing Zaland. Halfway there, upon the hills of the Balias Tor, they were accosted by another set of thugs employed by the Baert Trading Company.

Bolder than their captured compatriots, not a one of them surrendered. Outside a city's limits they could escape with none the wiser to their attack. Armor of fine make adorned them, and the considerable magickal might of two summoners bolstered their offense. Aided in turn by the steep mountain terrain they stood sentinel atop.

'Twas a fight close-in, grim and dirty. One of the Gryphons (whose name Delita never learned) fell beneath the esper Ifrit's monstrous flames. But Gryphon resolve and training, with Ser Cadmus's tactical ingenious, brought them a victory marked with burn wounds and sword cuts aplenty.

Wounds were mended by half-skilled white magicks, yellow chocobo innate magicks, and chemist potions. None could break however, the fever Delita found himself suddenly set by.

Clear, of course, the aftermath of being dragged in water's current 'til days end. Miracle enough he was alive, he'd not lambast such small price for failure. The large price of separating from Her Highness and Ramza however…

The Baert goons they'd escorted remained silent even upon seeing more comrades cut down. No matter how much they were prodded their lips remained sealed. Dire fate awaited them in Lionel, but better one than dead men.

With bodies laid to proper rest they were back on mount for fair distance before night's camp. No one wanted to sleep next to the dead if it could be helped.

His fever worsened on the next day's morning. Every move he took sluggish and fatigued. He'd fought under worst conditions.

Even still, the gates of Lionel Castle were a welcome relief to have actual bedrest. The Baert prisoners were led off to the dungeon whilst Beowulf, Mustadio and Delita all took audience with Cardinal Delacroix.

The man was much the same as Delita met him last. Save maybe an extra crease around his features.

Inside the small, almost impoverished room, pleasantries were exchanged and Ser Cadmus gave his report on the situation with both other men confirming it.

Thus came the reason for Mustadio's pursuit by the Baert Company. Auracite.

His Eminence brought forth the illustrious glow of the Scorpio stone to the relief of the young machinist. He placed the red stone shaped somewhat like a circle on the table before them. "You have seen a stone alike this beneath Goug, have you not?"

The young man, almost as pale as Delita now, nodded. "The machines of Goug have long since lost the fire that powers them. But bits and pieces remain, some well enough that whence the stone passes nearby they hum and stir with life renewed."

"Then mayhap his search for the stone may be in some way connected to these lost mysteries."

"He's taken my father hostage to coerce the stone's local from me."

"Your Eminence," said Beowulf, "I request permission to lead a company of men to apprehend Ludovich Baert."

"I must decline, Captain," said the Cardinal to the shock of all others.

"Your Eminence?"

"A company of Gryphons headed by their Captain will draw suspicious eyes. Ludovich might remove his leverage and plead innocence, if he even remains in-city" he spoke a certain wisdom. "No, this must be done with subtle touch. Secure the hostage first and confirm his guilt with more than one pair of eyes. I mean no offense to your claims, young Mustadio, but the Baert Company's public image shines like the sun. Tedious legal documentation and defamations of character may be all that await you with lone support."

The news troubled the man into silence.

"Ser Herial," the Cardinal suddenly addressed him. "I'm assigning you to be leader of a small team to lend covert aid to this young man."

Delita blinked a few times in surprise before answering, "Me? Your Eminence? Surely there are better candidates within the Gryphons numbers?" He knew entirely why he was being sent. If by some devilish chance a Lucavi showed itself once more, he was the only one with experience in such matters. But better off sending a full company for that.

"I agree with Ser Herial's self-assessment," added Beowulf. "To make no light of his skills, he fought well whilst beset by illness and fever. But we've men of little renown aplenty in our ranks. More than enough to aid Mustadio without imposing further upon Ser Herial."

His Eminence gave a slow nod at their resistance to the idea. "Very well, you've made your case. Beowulf, assemble a small team, five, six men max, to accompany Mustadio back to Goug."

"Thank you, Your Eminence!" The machinist bowed deep enough to nearly bang his head on the table.

The cardinal turned his attention to the thankful machinist. "No, thank you, young man, for bringing this to our attention. It's only because of virtuous men like yourself that Lionel can function."

"Y-you're too kind, Your Eminence," Mustadio stammered out.

"I am kind enough, now, you should get some rest before you depart," he advised, before facing Delita once more. "I've a small discussion with Ser Herial I'd have in private."

The other two men gave their acknowledgement, while Beowulf seemed somewhat perplexed by the arrangement, he remained the loyal knight (even after the Church was not-so-loyal).

With but the two of them in the room (and with assurances of no eavesdroppers), the cardinal asked the heavy question. "What happened?"

He'd every day since being dragged into the journey south to come to a lie. And he gave it good. He retold the truths first: the kidnapping, the lose of chocobo, and the fight at the bridge. His orders were to mislead Ramza and seperate, taking Her Highness towards Besselat alone. But Delita informed the cardinal that he'd managed to convince Ramza of the validity of their plan. The better world for Ivalice that would ensue with the Church's stewardship.

The Cardinal nodded along, asking a light question here and there. Questioning the depths of Delita's retelling. But by the end of it, Delita was confident the Cardinal bought the lie.

"Ramza will either come to Zaland, or try and circle around north," said Delita. "I should meet with him as soon as possible. He does not have the connections in the Southern Order that I do."

"No," the cardinal shook his head with the refusal, "you are the only man trustworthy enough should the _worst_ come to past."

A chill ran along his spine. His whole body felt pressured just remembering the fight. Bits of metal were still fused into his chest. And the fever made it all the worse.

"Though, I would underscore the chances of that. Baert is a man that works for us."

A fair surprise. But if the connection between a man accused of slaving was linked to the Church the reputation would plummet faster than a diving bird. "For what purpose does the Church consort with criminals?"

"Control, of course," the Cardinal answered like it was a young child's question. "Oh, do not mistake us, we've long attempted to root out ne'er do wells like Baert, but no matter how many we put to the gallows more just rose. People want what they can't have: in legal, they want power, gil and highborn art. Through the illegal they want opium, their enemies silenced and those forced to bend their every whim."

So the Church's rule, should it come about, would be no better than any other. Was the Cardinal even aware the hypocrisy which he spoke?

"But let one man rise to the top, take it all under his banner, and you have control. Where the drugs, foreign wines and other such black objects go. Limit them, earn wins. Funnel the money they do make into positive benefits like charities."

 _War of a different kind._

"Baert has been, most useful, to this point." But the Cardinal's blank expression spoke the opposite. "We've already replacements lined, should his heart give way from his decadence, or a knife through it. And he's well run his course. Letting that young man escape is an embarrassment, frankly."

"A pistol is a well-strong weapon," said Delita. "I'm sure more than enough of Baert's thugs learned that lesson."

The Cardinal nodded. "Barich, may he rest in peace, always advocated their use. Mayhap his words have more merit than we realized if but one could give so many difficulty."

"What would you have me do, Your Eminence?"

"We'll play both angles here. Saviour and villain. I've sent a trusted messenger to Baert. He'll bring the stone straight to my hands, should he grasp it. Stay by Mustadio, and retrieve it from him should anything poor happen. Use your best discretion, Herial."

Chance remained that Baert could betray them. Or by some chance the Cardinal had his doubts of Delita's motives. A way to test loyalties, or remove misplaced ones. "You've my word, Your Eminence. But I must bring to mind my worry of the _worst_ making its fearsome visage returned."

"You would have us stop digging through Goug for this time?" He posed the question. "Progress is not brought by measures always safe."

"Progress digging through the wreck of a civilization that destroyed itself."

The cardinal loosed a surprising laugh. "I almost worry that I should accompany this excursion. Having a stone to seal away should one rise would be valued."

Another surprise from the cardinal. But the man was not a war hero for delicate sensibilities. "Mayhap scorpio in my hands?"

The cardinal's hands were a flash as he took the stone back. "No, no, the stone Mustadio speaks of should be there." His face contorted defensive and almost spiteful.

Quite possessive, wasn't he? "I understand, Your Eminence."

"Good, good." Welcome relief washed away the foulness broaching him. But he looked all the more weary for it. "Once this matter is settled we'll have you back towards the Black Lion in no time. Mayhap with some illustrious trust placed more upon your shoulders."

That meant… Delita repeated his words above. Dismissed followed, with the Cardinal motioning to inform Ser Cadmus.

He couldn't let the Church think him untrustworthy so soon. He had to do this.

The bed Delita was eventually led to was warm and comfortable like little else he'd experienced in his life.

Delita's fever didn't break on the next morning. If anything, it persisted worse than usual. Simply leaving the confines of his bed proved a tremendous task.

Breakfast was some thick porridge along with plenty of water and a visit from a full-time professional chemist. He was given a foul-tasting medicine to take on the morrow.

Six Gryphons, Mustadio and himself were arranged to head westwards towards Goug. Gathered in a set of fine mythril kit (unadorned of any Gryphon insignias), and chocobos well-stocked on provisions. Mustadio greeted him with a cheery grin and some more thanks.

Delita was given command of the squad. Being a Templar sergeant wowed the otherwise untested Gryphons. Each of them just old enough to come free of whatever akademy the Gryphons tested under. 'Twas not so long ago he looked up with such hopeful eyes.

Their skills were fair, as to be expected from people Ser Cadmus specifically selected. The squad would have a good range of combat effectiveness in melee, range or magic.

Those were put to the test when they encountered monsters on their way to Goug.

The Tchigolith Fenlands were a poisonous marsh wetted deep black water from the blood of all those slain during the Fifty Years' War. Ghostly and skeleton undead barred their path west, along with a floating eye.

Mustadio's pistol was a great boon in the ensuing battle. Its bullets pinning skeletons fording the river to pace. The waters so powerfully foul that even undead horrors were wracked with its poisons.

The flying eye and the ghosts meanwhile, soared above the dangerous fens without care. Blade and spell were aimed at them as they made attack on the church line.

Scattered monsters could do naught against well-prepared fighters and it did not take long to put the undead down. The horrors would eventually return to this world without a proper exorcism to banish them, but Delita and company's travels had them saddling back west in little time.

Upon camping on less-tepid ground, their bodies were examined for cuts and infections. A few had scraps, which bode worry for the next day's mission. Delita's fever continued to burn, nearly dragging him into the grim muck of the fenlands twice.

The bridge leading to the isle Goug was situated on was a welcome relief and the eventual foray into the city proper was more so. Men and women garbed similar to their machinist escort dotted the streets at every corner. Mechanical wonders sold in street vendors. Pistols, unloaded Mustadio assured, were hung for display and effect. Small windmill blades were attached to every few houses. The Clockwork City of Goug was unlike any other city in Ivalice.

Few paid notice to their company as they rode in and made arrangements for stables and rooms.

Mustadio bid him outside shortly after the basic necessities were settled. A fading day's sun set the city of machines orange as they walked along a stone bridge.

"I don't see anyone from Baert," said Mustadio. "This passes strange, his men throttled the city whence I left…"

"Mayhap he retreats to Warjilis?" The base of the Company's power.

Mustadio's lips tightened into a thin line. "Best I scout the city to be sure."

"Better to group than separate further," offered Delita.

"Yes…" Mustadio absently replied. "'Twould be easier to search independently."

Seemed no chance to change his mind. "Where then should we meet?"

Mustadio pointed south. "The lowtown at night's onset. We'll be away from untrustworthy eyes that way."

Some measure of pride prevented the local man from proclaiming them slums. "Your father's description, should I perchance find someone claiming him myself?"

"Oh, of course." Mustadio gave a simple rundown. Mustache, longish hair more orange than brown. Walked with a cane and a limp.

"Stay safe."

The two parted ways.

Back at the inn, Delita gave the conversation's details to the squad and set them about to gather information of their own. He joined them after taking in dinner.

They found nothing but rumor. Baert had pulled his company men from town. Even the local branch office was closed. But every so often, a person would say someone matching the company's boss's description was seen recently.

It did not bode fortunate.

Still beset by a fever, thought breaking, Delita rounded the squad up and led them to the lowtown.

The base splendor of the main city was falling apart in its own unique take on a city slums. Crumbling stone buildings, rickety wooden shacks propped against them. More buildings with curtains for a door than proper wood and some not even that luxury. Every so often light broke from glass windows and cracked boards and worn stone. Peculiar the most were those reinforced with metal, and a windmill toppled over that still moved in the wind.

Atop the ruined windmill, and by night's glow, rain began to fall softly.

"This passes wrong," Delita said to the squad. "Fan out, ready yourselves for combat." Mustadio may well have been captured. Or worse.

The Gryphons hidden in drab green coloring took positions around the slanted building.

"Mustadio bought a good deal many men, eh?" A man's voice that could be mistaken for a pig's came from upon a nearby structure.

Delita turned eyes to the tower of shacks circling upwards around a stone chimney at their center. Standing atop it, was a man who looked near as ill as Delita, but many years elder and with so many chins they'd formed one bulbous mass. He looked the picture perfect of a decadent noble. Forest green robes, embroidered with shimmering gold of so fine a make the whole of lowtown could not even be a tenth their cost. His graying hair was meticulously combed over to give off an air of refinement and his beady little eyes acted like daggers.

Two woman archers with bows ready and notched came to the man's left. He was doubtless Ludovich Baert.

"I underestimate the low-going price of Lionel's sellswords, it seems," the man continued. "Bring him forth."

At his word, a green-capped thief dragged a beaten and bloody Mustadio forth into the rain.

"Looks like… like, I messed up, sorry," Mustadio spat out with lips leaking blood.

Delita looked back at Baert. "Where's his father?"

"So demanding." Baert snapped his fingers and another green-capped thief came bearing the other Bunansa.

"Father!"

Besrudio Bunansa was not the mess his son was, but 'twas clear his imprisonment was harsh. The man holding him did more work to keep him upright than the senior's own legs.

"D-don't tell them anything…" the mustached man choked out.

"I'm a reasonable man," Baert lied. "Simply give me the stone, and this can just all, go away."

The Gryphons were ready to go. White magicks could be thrown at the Bunansas. The wind and rain would throw off the archers' aims. This could be over quickly. Were he not to let the man go.

Baert's patience thinned. "Oh, do we need to open some more holes here?" The thieves drew knives to necks.

Mustadio's eyes went wide at his father's predicament. "Delita," instead he addressed him, "at your feet, there's a chimney. The stone lies within."

"Don't do it, son!"

Good, good, they could all get out of this alive. Delita nodded and followed the instructions. From within the wet and sooty stack he pulled free a gemstone.

One that was very clearly not authentic auracite to Delita's eyes. It posessed none of the peerless luster that cancer or scorpio did. It shone yellow, and the symbol of taurus was chiseled into the horn-shaped stone.

Delita suppressed a little smirk. Delivering another stone personally would reaffirm his value in the Church's eyes. Mustadio would have it elsewhere.

Delita returned to the highest point atop the slanted, broken windmill. Above, Baert looked down with the delight a fat man did at seeing his favorite meal.

"Release them first," demanded Delita.

"This is not your transaction, boy," Baert spat down in contempt. "The stone first, then they go free."

They were his only leverage. Baert did not have the numbers in view to simply fight for the stone. "Knives down and them set halfway to our side. I've no trust those knives return to sheathes otherwise."

"You slander my good name sirrah!"

"You _are_ the one with hostages."

The blatantly obvious accusation replaced the pale face with one red and flush. "They shall stand at roof's edge and my men a dozen paces back. You will toss me the stone and then they may go free."

The drop at that point was about Mustadio's height, an acceptable distance. Though the limping father may find it more difficult.

"Agreed."

The Bunansas were set as instructed, with the Baert green-caps back, and out of view entirely.

Delita gave them comforting nod before tossing the false auracite at Ludovich. Against expectations, the fat-fingered man actually caught the gemstone with no difficulty. His eyes stared deep into the stone.

"Wonderous," he spoke and dispelled any notion he caught the deception. "A true Zodiac Stone at last! I'll have the world as mine own after this. Deal with them."

Throwing away lives to keep the part played. Disgusting.

Baert moved retreat as swiftly as his girth could. The Bunansas made their leap forward towards Delita and Gryphons with Baert knives narrowly missing their back. Enemy arrows rained down but naught but water struck them as they hobbled into cover. Where Baert vanished, came two summoners clad in wide green cloaks and red horns banded around their temple.

A fight that could be avoided with ease, made to bloody men who nonetheless did deserve death.

"White magicks to the Bunansas," Delita hastily ordered and one Gryphon went to it. "Summoners first with all you may muster." Facing esper Ramuh in the rain would spell their doom quick as the lightning it cast. "Cover the Bunansas the rest of you."

The Gryphons proceeded with all due haste. Delita and two leapt into the middle ground between the buildings. Their aim, the summoners. Black magick casted the swifter between the two disciplines, but 'twould not be enough on its own. Holy Sword was to tip the balance.

Magicks in his blade were loosed and up above struck the two clumped summoners in Judgement Blade's faux-ice. Real ice and lightning enacted a follow up and came two deathrattles right after.

The most pressing danger death, Delita turned their attention to the archers. Those with the Bunansas could best two well-armed thieves through sheer numbers.

Arrows loosed once more and blessed by the God of luck for one found its way through rain and wind and armor to Delita's hip.

This would just make the fever ever the worse…

The Gryphons rushed the stack the archers were perched upon. Swords the superior to bows proven easy.

A glance back saw the thieves down as well.

Victory at little a price.

Delita limped over to the white mage and had the arrow pulled and wound closed. The Bunansas were the worse for the wear, but the rain was steadily washing away the blood.

"We should reach shelter," said Mustadio pointing to one of the shanties nearby.

A quick jaunt inside. It was small, cramped and leaked but it did not have rain falling directly on their heads. Two of the Gryphons manned the door, one tended to the injured and the rest milled about on a watch.

"Are you alright?" Mustadio asked his father.

"My wounds are healed, thanks to your friends here. Whom are they?"

"Gryphons," said Delita.

"Thank the Cardinal!" The elderly Bunansa prayed. "But I would think more of you to uncover Baert's duplicity than this?" Delita explained the Cardinal's misgivings about Besrudio surviving should a whole company of Gryphons descend upon the town. "But for my life Baert now has the auracite." He frowned. "Even the full strength of the Church would be hard-pressed to battle against Cataclysm machines."

Delita nodded. He'd first-hand experience he'd not like to repeat.

Mustadio snickered.

The unsituational noise drew looks of ire from the Gryphons.

From the folds of his clothes the machinist drew forth a stone.

The _true_ taurus stone.

Its luster was undeniable and even held in gloved hand Delita could spy the inscribed symbol within. Mustadio had made a convincing enough fake.

"They'll find little use in a fake such as that."

"Well done," Delita complimented him. "Were Baert's goons so incompetent not to search your person?" He lacked his firearm, but…

"I'd hidden a number of fakes around the area," he gleefully answered. "With the real one amongst them."

Plan became ever the clearer. "Excellent, a fake may not be evidence has solid as true, but we find less chance of fighting men of metal with it in his grasp."

But, what now?

* * *

The entourage of the Princess journeyed north under the miserable conditions that beset them. The Lionsguard did their best to provide comfort for their lady's needs, but three thin cloaks were not proper bedding. All the camping supplies had been destroyed and all sleep was with full exposure to nature's elements.

All the worse that the Lionsguard refused to let him speak. They tolerated his presence as an unfortunate necessity, and that was it. They even spoke rare amongst themselves when he could overhear. It took him two days to finally put face and name of all the Lionsguard together.

Agrias was their captain. A Holy Knight, skilled, and entirely loyal to her lady. She never let Her Highness out of her sight, unless it could not be helped. She had watches and patrols set quickly and effectively for so few women under her command.

Lavian was the second here, and the one who supported the idea heading east under the "Lucavi's advocate" role. That did not convert into friendliness with him, however. When she prepared their meals with a bit of flavor his was always excluded.

Alicia was set as the forward scout as they headed north. She seemed to have a good head for maps and terrain, and more often than not their sleep locales were as dry and safe as off-path could be. Besides Her Highness, she was given the most active rest.

Annabelle, the one he poorly bartered with in Orbonne, shot him glares at every opportunity she had. He almost worried he'd find a sword at his throat mid-night.

Each of them were some manner of long and blonde-haired, as most nobility of Ivalice was. Agrias's was braided together, as were Her Highness's. Annabelle's was a bit shorter, more reddish and she herself was the lowest in height, being half a hand below Lavian. The rest were near as tall as Ramza himself. Their armors were a better indicator, each having unique scars from their clash with the Northern Order.

For all his concerns, they'd yet to depart without him. Some small, small comfort.

It took three days traveling safe and away from Northern Sky patrols to make it north of the Besselat Lake. The Fusse Plains and the Fusse River were what separated the territories of central Lesalia and eastern Limberry on maps of Ivalice. They'd be patrolled by both Orders and neither were their allies at the moment.

Under Alicia's guidance, they reached the river's banks. Winter had not yet yielded to spring, even if Aries had turned into the second month of Taurus. Cold winds swept over the grassy, gently sloping plains tinged with the river's rapids.

The river's depths were well out of sight and frankly far too dangerous for anyone to swim across.

As he was about to raise point of his dragoon skills, another man's voice too dangerously familiar spoke first.

"I'd thought this a crossing east viable but not this configuration."

Ramza's blood froze colder than a blizzaja spell. He turned to face the man revealing himself from whatever hill he hid behind.

Zalbaag Beoulve approached.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: It took a lot of restraint not to just name this Black Southern Cross.**

 **Asahar4: Thank you for your Review. That's refreshing to hear. That kick review seems to have gotten me some good focus. And this Review here is what kicked me to add the Ramza part here instead of letting this lie solely as a Delita Chapter.  
**

 **Thank you all for reading and have a insightful day.**


	53. Chapter 52: Savior Beoulve

**Chapter 52: Savior Beoulve**

His helmet still atop, his face was not seen. "Run," Ramza whispered.

But the Lionsguard did not heed his wisdom. Lady Agrias moved free from the chocobo's saddle and settled into a defensive line with her dames.

Lord Brother Zalbaag was the same as he ever was but with a deep scowl at the sight before him. His hand did not yet rest on his sword. That would change faster than the blink of an eye should they draw his ire.

"Lady Oaks," Zalbaag addressed her, "may I ask what you're doing?"

"Following the wishes of my lady."

The Knight Devout shook his head at the answer. "Your Highness, I am gladdened to see you safe, but if you would indulge my question as to why you look to pass into Duke Goltanna's territories?" 'Twas clear the answer, and yet, he had to ask.

"I am."

"That would start a war, Your Highness," his tone was calm. "You would be a tool he uses to force a claim on the throne. Come, you will be safe and secure in Eagrose."

"Eagrose would have me dead," she said. "Knights of the Order of the Northern Sky have attacked us."

Zalbaag considered the matter and slowly, he nodded. "Your Highness I believe you've been led astray. No knight was given such a command."

"I saw them with my own eyes."

"You saw men garbed as such, that I believe," he said. "But, as Lady Oaks would attest, sight was in Dorter that imitations of yourself and Lionsguard sped northwards."

Part of the Church's decoys, but now it may seal their plot's doom. Zalbaag seemed to be alone for what little it mattered. Facing an army was a more welcoming prospect.

The two central women of the conversation exchanged worried and knowing looks. Her Highness answered, "No, I am confident they were."

Zalbaag sighed at the refusal of his offer. "So be it, pray forgive this act but I must take you by force."

"You would dare point your sword at royalty?" An outraged Agrias shouted. Lionsguard drew their mythril swords and set their shields.

"I aim to correct a mistake, as I have always done even under Her Lord Father's service." Zalbaag's right hand slowly drifted to his sword and pulled it free. A pale, slightly lavender color blade with black runes etched along its blade. He had no need for armor, powerful runeblade would do. "Turn back now, lest Duke Goltanna plunge Ivalice into war. If safety remains your concern you'll have my watchful eye, I assure you."

As once he assured Ramza and Delita of Teitra's safety? Nay.

But this was Zalbaag Beoulve. The famed Savior of Ivalice. Not even Barbaneth Beoulve was praised so lofty by King Denamda IV.

"We cannot best him," Ramza hissed as low he could. "We must away."

"He is outnumbered," said Annabelle.

Crossing swords with Lord Brother as enemy was not something he wanted even now. His mind recalled every lesson with blades and tool of war that Zalbaag taught. Every fight he had, every duel he invoked. He'd never lost to anyone save Lord Father and even then he won more than many a match.

"Ensuring Her Highness's safety is our primary concern," he replied. Princess Ovelia could force a crossing with Boco, but the rest of them did not have that luxury.

"I'll allow you no more time to whisper," interrupted Zalbaag. "Prepare."

There was no more time to think. Sound of thunder broke as Zalbaag struck like lightning. Runeblade striking Agrias's shield full force and near splinting in in twain in one blow.

The other Lionsguard moved. Stab from Lavian and an overhead slash from Alicia aimed at him whilst Annabelle moved round to strike the flank.

Zalbaag pulled away, his sword glowing a deep crimson not drawn of blood as he did.

This was how he fought. How he always did as an Ark Knight. Crush his opponent's means of combat. Break their armor, break their spirit and sap their strength of arms and legs with magicks. A peerless duelist.

Even here, five-against-one as he was, he moved to only ever fight one at a time. His footsteps were quick and decisive in carrying him precisely enough to dodge the Lionsguard attacks while singling one out.

His blade lashed with the flexibility of the wind and he cut deep into Annabelle's side. Lavian moved forward to cover but Zalbaag rushed her first. His sword cleaved through her mythril blade like it was a twig and struck her shoulder. He drew away twice more, with the second a blink before shard of faux-ice missed his position.

Never before had Ramza seen anyone evade the higher arts of knighthood and yet Zalbaag doing so was no more surprise.

"You cannot win this," said Zalbaag already readying himself once more.

This was what he'd spent so long training against at Mullonde. He'd bested Alfredo, he could best Zalbaag.

The Lionsguard readied themselves as well. Lavian ready to brawl should it come to it.

Lionsguard in front of him, and Her Highness behind. He was in a position of many opportunities.

Support would be the best role. Chanting white magick he bestowed a shell upon the knight dames. 'Twould ward off the most dangerous effects of Zalbaag's blade of ruin and, with some fair fortune, negate it entirely.

The Lionsguard with swords still clutched made their move — line advanced. Lavian left back. Ramza retrieved sword from Boco's pouch and hastily moved to press it into the unarmed Lionsguard's hand.

Zalbaag once more matched blades with the Lionsguard. His older brother took to the defensive this time, his sword better at protection than any shield in the fight. No mythril found purchase on Beoulve flesh whilst his blade glowed blue, red and purple as he sapped away power from his foewomen.

Even as he built fatigue upon the Lionsguard once so often did the sap fail. While his eyes remained focus on the Lionsguard, Zalbaag's mind surely narrowed the source of protection down to the concealed Ramza.

So he'd add more. Layer upon layer sent protection from physical arms just in time to prevent another cut upon Annabelle's legs.

Surprise did not last long enough for the ladies to make use of it as Zalbaag situated himself with defensive distance once more. A battle of attrition no longer favored him so considerably. If Ramza could place regen on the knights then they could retreat in good order.

He'd make learning the "float" spell his next priority. 'Twould make a situation such as this simpler.

Zalbaag had enough of the reprieve. He clasped his sword with both hands before engaging once more. His renewed offense made his prior look like sparks compared to the speed and fury he displayed now.

'Twas only now that Ramza only fathomed how he'd only ever seen Zalbaag fight for sport. Lord Brother that fought now was a man apart.

Shield and sword combined could not stop but a single swing of the knight devout. Mythril defensive and offensive was shattered even through its magickal protection. The storm of Zalbaag's attacks was so fierce he forced four Lionsguard on the defensive by himself.

Another brutally powerful slash sent Annabelle flying backwards without sword or shield. Ramza quickly loosed a simple cure spell on her but her face was more red in rage than pain. Zalbaag's offense broke Lavian's blade next, leaving only Agrias with sword, but no shield.

There had to be something else he could accomplish.

Zalbaag stepped back, his grip slacking back to one hand. "Do not force my hand any more," said Zalbaag. "We need not fight, or spread this tale. Come, Your Highness."

"No," she still refused, "your Lord Brother is the one who stands accused of the attempt on my life."

"Preposterous," Zalbaag's voice rose with the word. "Dycedarg plays his hand at intrigue, yes, but he's a man of just and honor as any Beoulve is. He's no conspirator, I assure you. Who spreads such slander?"

Her Highness looked now at Ramza. "'Tis he, he who makes these claims."

"Well, what evidence have you of my Lord Brother's duplicity? I expect _none_."

He was not confident to disguise his voice. He winced away from answering, offering but a shake of his head to Her Highness's disappointment.

"You put favor in a man who does not even speak? Who remains hidden behind that mask rather than approach?" The Lionsguard helmets were open-faced… "I think this spy of Duke Goltanna misleads you, Highness."

The doubt he'd cast found hook in Her Highness's mind. Colors flown false and men with closed helmets. No one could be trusted.

Everything he'd worked toward destroyed by Zalbaag's words once more.

No. "No," said Ramza. But with his voice twisted as close to Delita's as he might find. Flat and hollow with an edge of roughness to it. Hope was to fool Zalbaag but Lord Brother brooked curious ear. And looks of distrust at distorted voice from Lionsguard and their charge.

"He speaks then." Did he play along? Did he harbor suspicions? "You charge House Beoulve with a slander I'll not stand for. Will you?"

"I charge it with the crimes it commits," Ramza-as-Delita replied. "Or does the name Tietra fall from your mind as quickly as the order you gave felled her?" He used Tietra. Like some disposable tool rather than the person she was.

But it was the one weapon that saw the Knight Devout unsettled. "Whom are you!?" His complacency disturbed with a shout!

"Herial's revenge."

It stung worse than a bee's sting.

Zalbaag returned both hands to his sword. The silke-like countenance gracing him hardened to mythril. "So be it."

The elder Beoulve moved past the Lionsguard as if he was wind. Their sword and struggle found no purchase and he was within striking distance of Ramza in three blink's time.

'Twas not enough to come up with a tactic to defeat an ark knight.

Ramza took clumsy step backwards to evade the oncoming blow aimed at him. A slash, rose from below with intent of knocking clear his helmet.

It struck, prying upwards the platinum enclosure and sword's tip dug into his face like a quill.

He fell, literally, fell back on his hindquarters. The helmet was pushed forth enough to reveal a young man's chin clear of many whiskers but his identity remained his.

Zalbaag's sword came about from overhead. If a delicate slash could not than a harsh one would have to do.

His assault was halted mid-swing by shards of Judgement Blade besieging him. Ones that struck Ramza as well, but even half the armor he wore was more protection than the fine clothes Zalbaag wore.

Lord Brother took steps aside as he bled lightly. Blade a crimson glow as Ramza felt his arms bracing him forward lose strength and nearly collapse on him. Strengthsap and Judgment Blade a powerful combination to wound a man.

Zalbaag's new position focus kept the Lionsguard, Her Highness and Ramza in view once more. There would be no second successful strike of Judgement Blade.

The Lionsguard rallied around him now. At the center of the formation he was now perfectly placed to catch all five of them in white magick.

Zalbaag readied his blade, but gave enough time for Ramza to finish casting cura. The energizing light refilling most of what his own ally's strike had done.

"We must catch him unawares," said Agrias.

Prying the sword from Zalbaag's grasp might be possible. Or landing a powerful jump. Aurablast from hidden point? Summoning magicks could tell friend from foe, even if he knew only moogle and shiva. Thundaja would work had he not expanded himself already. It took all his reserves to cast such powerful magick.

There was no solution he could give before Zalbaag rejoined the fray. Lady Agrias kept her blade safe from shattering as she fought with him. The other Lionsguard distracted him as best they could. Thrown stones, clumps of dirt. Shouts and feigned attempts at attack.

But no matter how the dames situated themselves they could not surround him. Could not break that diamond-hard focus he had.

Lady Agrias did her best but she was wearing down. More and more Zalbaag's runeblade caught cut on her arm or leg and one strong hit to her side.

Ramza did his best to mend with quick casts of cure but he was running low even after so much low-level magicks. The rough journeys and his own fatigue had left him paltry.

They held a few potions in reserve…

It wasn't raining this time, but it would still hurt.

He had to hurry before Agrias's blade broke. Ramza turned within and dipped hand into the puddle of magick left within. He scooped it forward and with chant molded it into what he needed it to be.

Ramza rushed into the melee, spell chanting in hushed tones. He swung at Zalbaag to relieve pressure on Agrias.

The Lionsguard gave space as Zalbaag turned his ire to his younger brother. Without hesitation, the elder Beoulve swung once more at the helmet. A sideways slash. Ramza ducked it, yet it still cleaved free a chunk of platinum.

Zalbaag rode the slash, twisted his body 'round and struck like a whirlwind.

A favorite move of his. Same as Alfredo.

Left just enough time for Ramza to finish.

"Thunder," he grunted out.

The simple bolt of lightning struck himself first, as the focus. Twisting himself as the lightning rod once more. But close as he was, and the stance he'd taken, Zalbaag could not attempt.

The bolt struck him, unbalanced him enough for Ramza to managed a better evade even as both Beoulves grunted from the pain.

And following he was another fall of Judgement Blade. The mass-scale of faux-ice damaged both Beoulves and once more the younger endured it the better.

The younger fell to knee, breathless and pained but barely just alive.

Zalbaag's clothes were torn and ragged now. Streaked with red blood and black singe.

Still he thrust onwards a runeblade's pale purple tip at fallen Ramza's forehead.

Shield of mythril did intercept. Lavian his protector as Alicia and Annabelle simply rushed the standing Beoulve. Sheer weight of momentum behind their bodies to counter the ark knight's own. His constant retreats and precise positioning a strength they could yet exploit. The injuries he'd sustained and but the small cuts he'd intentionally inflicted were tipping the scales.

The Lionsguard made grab at Zalbaag's sword hand and whilst he dealt with that, the other made a tackle at his feet. He shifted his right away and kicked as Alicia dove at him but she grabbed on and held his foot like a vice.

Zalbaag stabbed downwards to force her off but quick-moving Lavian brought her shield forth once more. Annabelle latched unto his wrist with both her hands and shoulder-checked him.

In spite of the unsteady stance, Zalbaag stood strong. His left punch struck Annabelle square in her face. Twice and a third time weakened her enough for Zalbaag to break free from her grip. His sword glowed blue. Annabelle's retreat was slowed, like she was moving through water.

Lavian moved to protect her comrade. Mythril shield not as hardened as the resolve of the Lionsguard and it shattered against the next thrust of the ark knight. Point sticking through the bracer of the dame but just as swiftly pulled free. He'd not lose his blade so easy.

No further interruptions and he swung his blade to clear Alicia from his feet. The Lionsguard fell back from their foeman.

Once more, Judgement Blade deliver its damage.

But this time Zalbaag did not move after.

He stood still as a statue. The aftereffects of the Holy Sword art had rendered him stopped.

"We must away!" Ramza said hastily.

"If he would be Her Highness's enemy best end him now," countered Agrias. The Lionsguard agreed with their captain.

That would be best. So why had he rejected it so swiftly? He'd tossed those familial bonds a year ago.

 _Lord_ Brother.

'Twas second nature his entire life. The kind Lord Brother who offered encouraging word at every success. The strong Lord Brother who always embodied chivalry.

The traitor Lord Brother who killed Tietra.

With Zalbaag gone so would the Northern Sky's greatest champion, their best general. Tietra would be one step closer to avenged. 'Twould be best for all.

Save Alma.

What would befall his sister should Dycedarg hold complete sway over her life? Alma was a cleric and more of her studies were dictated by Zalbaag than the eldest Beoulve. Without him as a buffer there was no limit to what Dycedarg might do.

"Imprison him, and we may yet bargain with the White Lion." 'Twas all he could offer.

Lionsguard one and all turned their attention from the immobilized man to him.

A mistake.

With a flash Zalbaag struck. Even at their best the Lionsguard could not compare and even a slight distraction proved disaster.

Alicia was struck first to her stomach and sent to the ground. Lavian and turned half step before Zalbaag bashed her with sword's flat and sent her as well. Annabelle, already struck harshly in the face managed her guard up to protect herself. Zalbaag swept under with an uppercut to her chin, followed with an elbow and finally cracked the top of her head with the pommel. She fell to the ground without bracing herself.

Agrias, near alone now, challenged him once more to swordplay. Her mythril blade shining—shattered in seconds.

This did not deter her and she jabbed at him. The edge of the blade did not scare her. But mayhap one thing did. She shouted:

"Run!"

Her Highness did not. She watched in horror as the last of her knights was thrown violently to the ground.

Whether Zalbaag had shrugged off the spell or merely acted as if he was under its effects didn't matter. 'Twas but Beoulves left standing now. Ramza just a dullard who'd barely aided the Lionsguard who fought and bled so bravely.

He put his guard up as Zalbaag rushed in once more. The Knight Devout's swings and feints effortlessly breaking and sliding through any attempts to stop him. He was but an infant before an adult. He could not win.

He still tried.

When Ramza attempted a punch Zalbaag simply sidestepped and jammed his pommel into Ramza's side. He gritted his teeth and attempted an elbow but Zalbaag simply ducked and sent Ramza flying with an uppercut. Any interest his brother had in removing the helmet had faded in wake of just smacking him around.

Ramza pushed himself off his back but Zalbaag was already walking forward. So confident, so resolute. So unsuspecting. A straight line straight to him. No glance spared by the ark knight for Her Highness being onlooker or the Lionsguard struggling to their feat.

Within he scraped together every bit of defiance he might muster. Form it into energy and loose an aurablast in that defenseless face. Whirling form of martial spirit in his fist and he punched.

Nothing.

No strike of invisible force to brother's face. Just a sputter like campflame dying. Everything he had left was worth naught.

Strength spent he fell once more upon his back. Brother's runeblade came to his throat right after.

"Stop this please!"

Her Highness's plea that stopped brother from prying free the black platinum helm.

"Have you enough of this now, Your Highness?" said Zalbaag. "Far worse would occur to many more a people should you continue such a foolish trek east."

"You have made your point," Her Highness resigned.

"Good. You've saved a great deal many lives today, Your Highness."

"Answer me one thing," she asked. "Who is Tietra?"

Question once more caught Zalbaag off-guard. "Nobody you should be concerned with, Your Highness."

Distraction enough for Ramza to swat away the blade and lunge once more.

Aided by the Lionsguard on their feet and once more engaging. Four women taking hold of every limb of the ark knight. Ramza clasped the front of Zalbaag's tunic. (Fingers touching something hard at an untorn cloth near the chest.)

"Heed your lady's words and cease this!"

Their grips only tightened. Lady Agrias wrapped her arms round his throat. She'd strangle him if need be.

"So be it."

Zalbaag's struggles ceased.

But his lips moved. Silent casting—and fast. One last damnable word slipped through his lips. "Ramuh."

The walls that made the world were torn in twain as Zalbaag's summon reached fruition. Form of old man with beard white and long to his feet appeared in sky. The lightning esper: Ramuh. Its staff rose high as it loosed bolts of lightning. Shots as percise as a peak marksmen. Every single lightning bolt impacted Lionsguard and Ramza leaving not a single crack on the summoner.

They fell, one by one. No more fight remained as Ramuh vanished above.

One last grasp did Ramza have on Zalbaag's clothing but even that faltered as what he grasped plied apart. The hard object, a stone — one called zodiac!

Ramza's eyes went wide as he desperately grasped the freefalling auracite. His fingers found their target and brought it in tight.

Zalbaag realized what occurred and lunged for it — but Ramza tossed stone away.

Towards Ovelia.

Zalbaag moved towards it, forgetting everyone he'd bested to get this far. Ramza naught but a small bump against his brother's shins.

Her Highness looked down at the orange gemstone. Ramza could not even spit out a word and the Lionsguards' silence indicated much the same. Zalbaag's march but five steps away.

Boco bent his neck down and snapped up the auracite in his beak. (Did he think it some treat?) The chocobo's neck craned back up and Her Highness reached round and pried it free.

"Hold!"

And Zalbaag did petrify.

"If you would see this stone again you will depart!"

"Your Highness…"

"Do not come one step closer!" She held the stone high. "I will drown it in the Fusse River and you shall never see the auracite again"

She knew it was auracite!? Yes, with a monastery upbringing she would be well-familiar with the zodiac stones but she sounded irrefutably confident in her assertion.

"Do not do this, Your Highness," said Zalbaag, his voice sharper than the edge of his runeblade. "I cannot permit you to seek Duke Goltanna's court." He did not consider her bold enough to do as she claimed.

"And what shall you dare do?"

"What I must." His grip on the runeblade tightened. Reason had lost focus so pure violence would do. "You shall come with me to Eagrose. And you've much past the point of coming willingly."

Her Highness looked him straight in the eyes. Uncertainty, and fear, came to hers. Zalbaag was deadly serious and she knew it.

On chocobo she could yet outrun him but by herself she lacked any such ways to continue on.

Whatever thoughts running through her head culminated in her tossing the auracite south. The shining stone drawing Zalbaag's attention as it landed upon the riverbank. The Knight Devout jolted into a full run at the legendary artefact as Her Highness kicked Boco into a run.

Zalbaag clear thought it a distraction. A deception he could follow quickly and need not worry about for now. He did not stray a twist of his head towards Her Highness.

When he did, was to see the chocobo mending wounds with its innate beastial skill. Zalbaag's face scowling at underestimating Her Highness's ingenuity.

Alicia was the odd women out of Boco's choco cure remedy and Annabelle too wounded to stand even after. 'Twas the bearest of patchworks that let Ramza, Agrias and Lavian return to their feet but was enough.

Zalbaag would be drawing low on his own magicks. Ramuh, along with all his saps, would be drier than a river in drought. There was naught but normal blade left to him. As normal as his skill was.

Everyone readied themselves once more for a vicious melee. The Princess's defenders raised tired arms and Zalbaag pointed his sword at the crown once more. They readied themselves for his next brutal onslaught.

But instead he whistled.

Momentary confusion overtook them before eyes went to search. Could well be signal for reinforcements.

But not the one they expected.

"Chocobo!" Lavian cried out as the yellow bird mount came rushing from their flanks. They all moved aside as it galloped through their ranks towards its master, Zalbaag.

The ark knight leapt astride with practiced ease and kicked it right back into a charge at their line. Combat was difficult enough with him on foot. Astride a mount, might well be impossible.

But so were the situations he surrounded himself with. Ramza bent his knees. He'd drag his brother back down to earth.

Ramza jumped at him. At the blade leveled for a thrust.

Zalbaag broke left.

He spun his mount around but his momentum was broken, he could not level the full force of the charge now. He raised his sword high for his swing but such an obvious move was easy for them to dodge. The scattered defenders rallied — and that was when they realized their mistake.

Zalbaag's display had been to separate them deliberately. He had a clear path straight to Her Highness!

Shouts went to her to run—escape. She ran. Boco ran.

Zalbaag overtook them.

She struggled as he dragged her off. 'Twas not enough. With only one arm he overpowered the fragile princess and forced her on his saddle. She screamed once more for help. To defy being kidnapped yet again. Zalbaag kept her in place. His chocobo was kickede to gallop as everyone ran after him. But he and they were lost to the horizon as Delita and Ramza had done just before.

They'd lost. Completely and utterly.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: This took way too long to write.**

 **SquareRootofNine: Thank you for your Review. It was fun to explore how differently Delita handle it than Ramza.**

 **Asahar4: Thank you for your Review. Well the helmet was already answered so... The cameo characters I do have an interest in bringing in. Balthier would be simple. Luso I have an idea for. Cloud is... more difficult.**

 **Thank you new Favorite and new Follow. Thank you all for reading and have a good day.**


	54. Chapter 53: Waylaid Plans

**Chapter 53: Waylaid Plans**

The Lionsguard Captain barked her order, "Lavian prepare the chocobo, we move to pursuit."

"Milady I advise a wait," said Lionsguard said back.

"Advise me wait?" Agrias almost throttled her. "Any moment we tarry their lead grows longer."

"I agree with Lavian," Ramza added on.

All the fury directed towards Zalbaag now turned full upon him. "We are only in this damnable position because of your actions _ser_. Whatever act you put forth to hide yourself from his remembrance shall not be forgotten whence I've returned."

"My lady," said Alicia, "we do not even know where he takes Her Highness."

"Eagrose, of course."

Alicia shook her head. "By what path? His chocobo was not fitted to ferry two people a week's ride. He shall need a settlement to stop at, 'fore he continues west."

This calmed Agrias's temper somewhat. The Lionsguard Captain took a deep breath before answering herself. "Yes, of course. Thank you Lavian, Alicia. What are his options?"

"From our current position, and taking into account Her Highness's needs, there would be three options. The Mining Town of Gollund remains the closest major location, roughly a day's ride west. But as it remains winter, the area would be beset by heavier snowfall."

"I would think he knows well how heavy the snowfall is, on consideration of his departure from Lesalia."

"The Royal City is the next most destination, day-and-half northwest. He'd have the full force of the Northern Order to assist him."

"And the Lionsguard." Agrias bite her lip at the thought.

"Lastly, would be the Free City of Bervenia to the northeast. It's no stronghold of the Northern Order, but the Church Knights garrisoning the city would welcome a Knight Devout with open arms."

Grim prospects all.

"What of smaller settlements?" asked Annabelle.

"I would think it unlikely," replied Alicia. "He's no guarantee they'd respect Northern Order or the Crown's authority. He's like absent any gil pouches to barter for goods."

"He took other Northern Knights with him," cautioned Agrias. "He's like had them patrolling the riverbanks trying to catch that imposter."

This was dangerous new information. "You knew he was active in this area?" Ramza sputtered out.

"He arrived at Orbonne Monastery mere moments after your kidnapping," she shot. "For whatever purpose he did not say and I did not inquire. He was as exacerbated as we at the situation."

Zalbaag moving south was well outside the plans of anyone. What had compelled him so?

"We parted ways in Dorter, he northwards with the Northern Order to chase after an imitation of Her Highness and Lionsguard. I sped eastwards."

This may yet narrow the search. "In light of recent events I would find it unlike he heads for Lesalia. Lionsguard false and true arrayed against him and how many others?"

"Point fair made."

One destination crossed out whilst a thousand more came to mind. "However, there are a number of Northern Order forts in the region."

"How are you aware of such?" asked Alicia. "Most forts are kept clear from maps of other organizations to prevent their locations from falling into enemy hands."

From his time in the Northern Order, but such a claim would not work here. "'Twas on the maps I was presented with by the Church.."

"Of course," she bitterly answered. "Golland, Bervenia or an untold number of unknown forts. And if by chance it remains the foremost options, fact remains he can simply procure escort from a fort."

Gods this could not be more miserable. Save perhaps if Alma somehow wandered into the situation. "Zalbaag might consider the forts too… beneath, Her Highness. Or her sensibilities. For any case, we cannot touch them behind such walls." The bitter point was answered with nods. "I would say, Bervenia."

"How so?" said Agrias.

"The auracite," said Ramza. "In light of his near-loss of the artefact, coupled with Her Highness's own time spent as the Church's ward, would placate both them as best the situation allows."

"And best for you as well," said a newly conscious Annabelle, "should your assertion of your loyalties prove true."

No path forward would be met with ease.

"Lady Oaks, I differ to your judgement." Ramza made clear his intent. The Lionsguard, the same.

The Holy Knight passed look with each member of their gathering. Captain ruminating not only on the path to tread, but stock of what she had at their disposal. They'd barely two sets of armor amongst the five of them, a nearly useless mythril sword and their best remaining shield was in three pieces. Boco was not-well rested and neither was any human. Supplies would have to be divided to any divergence. 'Twas a mess no matter how one looked at it.

A few minutes passed. Enough for some meager scraps of magicks to recover and Ramza to lend aid to Boco's choco cures.

With a deep sigh prefacing her words, Agrias spoke, "We make for Bervenia." Grim nods of acceptance met her order. "You," she pointed finger at his chest, "shall be the one to accompany me."

He was almost more taken aback than the Lionsguard. Though they remained the far more vocal.

When their well-reasoned points were laid bare and the words stopped, Lady Agrias took words of her own. "I trust him least among us but he's Her Highness's favor and remains in the best of health. If his former allegiances remain, and by chance Lord Zalbaag sits at Bervenia, then it comes as the most practical option."

He'd take it.

"What of us, then?" asked Alicia.

"A rendezvous, someplace close to Bervenia. Find a place for us, Alicia."

"Yes, my lady."

The Lionsguard quickly pointed out a possible spot. The meeting point between Lesalia, Zeltennia and Limberries borders. A river delta with only small chances of running into Order patrols. Attempts to settle the area were never realized during the war and the poor solidity of the soil in the region.

A secondary point was marked as well, a fair ways more south, still in Lesalia proper. There'd been too many dangers to not consider such measures anymore. A lesson Ramza really should have realized with the chocobos, and every other mistake in his life.

Well wishes went Agrias's way as Lionsguard and knight errant mounted and rode north.

* * *

Her Highness's kicking and screaming and behavior so unlike a lady lasted near half the ride north. Only the setting sun and a voice ran hoarse and pained finally bought her silence. His own attempts to reason with her proved continuously fruitless. Whatever lies that kidnapper had filled her head with had taken deep hold. Even enough to disregard the dangers of falling free from moving chocobo.

Mayhap their destination of Bervenia would better change her countenance.

'Twas not a decision to be made lightly, but in deference to her reluctances 'twould be best to not antagonize her any further. A safe and familiar-enough locale like one of the Church's holdings would set her well at ease.

His mind sat well troubles its own. "Herial's Revenge" had but one meaning clear. Man aflame with revenge was dangerous a foe, even lessened by commons' blood and aim, as Wiegraf Folles demonstrated well. Moreso with the Black Lion lurking in the shadow of this.

But it provided opportunity true, for a lead on his journey's aim south had finally come to light.

Dawn's early light greeted him but seconds before the sentinels of Bervenia did. The guards recognized him instantly, sending runners to inform Ser Able of his arrival, handmaids for Her Highness and stableboys for his beleaguered mount. All with due discretion of course.

Her Highness had to suffer sleep atop saddle shortly after her struggles ceased prior night. Zalbaag was more-than used to such discomforts. It pained him more to force such upon Her Highness.

Some glimmer of hope remained within that she'd due more than shout at the sight before her whence she woke.

The Princess stirred; Zalbaag steeled himself ready to keep any outbursts in check.

"Where are we?" Her first words a groggy-half-pained question.

"The outskirts of the Free City of Bervenia." Some luck that this gate was free and manned only by a few.

"Bervenia?" she gasped.

The considerable lack of raised voice drew him to conclusion this was the right place. "You are safe here, Your Highness. The Church of Glabados will provide you sanctuary once more."

She turned to face him with her eyes weary and tired beyond those given by uncomfortable sleep. A look Zalbaag was all-too familiar with: The resignation towards death. Men facing the gallows, frontline infantry and those souls chosen to lead a forlorn hope.

"So these are the shackles I'm clasped with?" she said with too-dark resolution.

"Your Highness?" What had overcome her? Had those lines taken root so deeply so soon?

She faced away, back towards the gates of Bervenia. Her shoulders slumped, her posture huddled forward. "Take me to my newest cell. I would much like to cut short my enjoyment of a clear sky before it becomes too pleasant to part with."

Zalbaag fought back a sigh at her impudence. Even Princesses could take for granted what they were given. Too many urchins would take her place in a heart's beat.

"So be it," he claimed as firm as his own encroaching exhaustion let him.

Guided by able hands, Zalbaag breathed relief when he was finally free of the saddle. Even if it was far from his first ride it still sored his hindquarters something fearsome.

Her Highness did not resist, did not give way of any further discontent even in evidence of a slight misstep indicating saddle-soreness. She met the gaze of no man and responded to words with a turn of her head. A defiance of a different nature. One welcome for now.

Her Highness and he were shown before the local Templar Master: Linnet Able. The usual introductions were made and the Divine Knight put on a wide smile before he spoke. "Ser Zalbaag, Gods bless you this day."

"May they do the same to you as well, Ser Able."

The Templar Master stood upright in the presence of Her Highness. Best he did to show calm authority in so limited a room. The office of one of the most sacred locations in Ivalice lacked a great deal of splendor available even to common forts. A refreshing change from some of the gaudiness ingrained in Northern Sky procedures.

"Please, please, we've known each other for years, Ser Zalbaag, Linnet is the least I offer."

He nodded at the courtesy. The Templarate's rules were far more casual than the Northern Order. Reason, one among many, Zalbaag stayed true to his Lord Father's devotion.

"Now," Ser Able continued, "we should more than reserve all pleasantries for Her Ladyship, I would say."

The Princess merely tipped her head to the stonework at their feet.

"My, I would have world with Elder Simon on his lessons…"

"Please be understanding with Her Highness," Zalbaag interjected. "The harshness of the journey has fatigued her considerably."

"Nay, I should ask for her forgiveness overstepping myself like that." The Princess gave a small enough huff. "That will be the best I presume? Well, no matter. Your Highness, Ser Zalbaag, so long as you seek protection within these walls I will do all in my power, meager as it is, to provide you with such. The full extent of the church's accommodations will be made available."

A welcome relief in these dire moments. "Thank you, Ser Linnet."

The Templar beamed at the words.

"May I take a chocobo then to mine own destination?" Her Highness spoke up.

Zalbaag shook his head as a look of confusion took hold of Ser Able. "Your Highness I know not the depths by which the fiend ensnared you but Eagrose is for your safety."

"I am quite confused at this…" Ser Able confessed.

"Let us clear that." Zalbaag worked quickly with the words he'd prepared on the silent ride beforehand. He kept absent his true intent for departing Lesalia, concentrating solely on his worrisome thought on the under strength guard. Worry well-founded when he arrived to see Her Highness absent. His travel to Dortor with Lady Oaks, and his pursuit of the misdirection that bore no fruit. But left him cautious enough to patrol river's edge and finally find Her Highness. Accompanied by traitorous Lionsguard and spy.

The implications behind it all laid bare: Duke Druksmald Goltanna.

"Such treachery!" Ser Able gasped. "I'll notify the High Confessor of this plot at once. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Ser Zalbaag." He gave nod to the herald who left the room with all due haste. But the three of them remained.

Zalbaag let slip no breath of relief. But the burden of this weighed less at those words. His own accounting would be but smeared as white-colored propaganda by the black. But the Church as a neutral arbiter would find the truth behind this without delay. Duke Goltanna's ambitions would be cut down like peasant levy. No man would flock to a banner decried by the Church.

"If there is anything we can do?"

"I would like a chocobo prepared immediately, and rations enough to last us until Eagrose."

He Templar took step back. "You mean to continue on without even a good night's rest?"

"Any second of delay is gives time to any number of unforeseen plots form and nets tighten. The safest course of action is bringing Her Highness to security within Eagrose as swiftly as able."

"I must interject my good ser," he shook his head, "while the option presents itself as most assured on its surface I offer my opinion that it is far more prudent to hold fast at least one day."

"How so?"

"To make no light of your prowess Lord Beoulve, but the story's telling relates how out-of-able your sword arm now rests."

He'd fought harsher conditions, tougher foemen and worse longer. But he nodded the Templar continue.

"You may yet best another hundred foes on way to Lesalia but can you guard Her Highness for true as such?"

Said Highness scoffed at the statement already.

"My mind considered well your words beforehand, Ser Linnett." He was of mind to consider this on the ride before. Even a night's rest would not reinvigorate himself enough to ward away whatever else lurked between the cities. If anything. "But my resolve remains. On swiftest mount we'd outrun any pursuers who'd spent stamina their own on watch."

"The direct-most route would be two days even kicking the beast to its limits," Ser Able warned. "With such limits fully tested by twos' weight and days' supplies."

A slow nod answered that. Even with mind fogged the burden of travels was a beacon above. His stomach could ache 'til safe walls but Her Highness had needed comforts one chocobo was ill-equipped to carry. No trusting her with a beast her own, as her resistance stood stiff. "I shall manage."

The Templar Master shook his head. "You would not ask us for escort?"

"I would not impose any further on your generosity. Or put you at outs with Mullonde itself. This is task of mine to bear, and alone."

"Presume I then, no missive to other Northern Order Knights?"

Chance of interception proved too high and who knew how many North faced South? He could call a dozen trustworthy knights but two dozen others may come instead. "You presume correct," he reluctantly admitted.

"Then no other stratagems come to my mind. I only implore you rest, for Her Highness's sake."

The Princess looked more downcast than ever. He misliked any delay, but the road ahead was fraught with more uncertainty than ever.

The benefits were plain. A strong arm to ward enemies and ensure no mishaps occurred in the saddle. Too common a Knight's life ended by a simple fall from a saddle. Three days without sleep and a fussy partner was too dangerous for Her Highness.

"Ser Linnet, I believe we shall take your offer." He looked at the Princess for any indication of other thought.

Nothing.

"Splendid!" the man clapped his hands together, "ah, forgive my outburst. To serve the Royal House Atkascha does us an honor." He showed them out, and after a nudge towards Her Highness, they followed him out.

Ser Able said to one of the door guards, "Fetch Lady Meliadoul. We'll be at the guest rooms." The knight nodded and left to carry out his order.

Small talk broke any attempts at silence between the two men. Of sermons, knights and plans for the future. Poor excuse for a small talk, true.

Ser Able showed first to Her Highness's room. A sizable enclosure, warm, with window. A canopy bed dominated the view, with dressers, a closet and vanity.

"This is our finest suite, Your Highness," Ser Able bowed, "may you find it to your tastes."

The Princess entered the room with the same aloofness she'd resigned herself too. Her eyes lazily took in her quarters. "Leave me."

"Yes, Your Highness."

They left her to her privacy. A noticeable lack of the door lacking behind them.

"Your quarters are just down the hall, Ser Zalbaag."

And he was led to such. Plain and unassuming. Zalbaag thanked him for his time before asking for privacy. No thoughts came to mind as he lodged into his temporary quarters and fell to sleep with blinding haste.

* * *

Meliadoul was summoned before Master Able. For what reason she was not informed, which was informative enough. She made her pace as swift as manners allowed as she walked towards the hall reserved for guests of the church.

"Ser Able," Meliadoul said when she arrived, and broke him from his concentration, "with what urgency have you summoned me?"

"There has been a large..." his swift response was dulled by a search for a correct term, "point of contention, regarding some things."

Any number of disasters could stem from such vagueness. Had the Lions gone to war? Had Lord Father's planning gone awry? Did something happen to Mother? "Meaning?"

"Her Highness Princess Ovelia is now located in the building's guest suite."

Her eyes spread wide at the words. "Pardon?"

"Her escort has gone awry, and so long as she enjoys sanctuary under our roof I would assign you to be her guardian."

She well knew what this meant. Both as a Templar, and Divine Knight. "By myself, ser?"

"You've well and utterly surpassed my skill with a blade, my lady, you are the most qualified to be trusted with the utmost important task you can be."

A small swell of pride rose in her chest, but her words kept to her new task. "What threats may yet strike at Her Highness? How did she come to our care?"

Ser Able gave a concise reply of Ser Zalbaag Beoulve rescuing the Princess from the clutches of the Southern Order's spies and traitorous Lionsguard.

"I will be informing Mullonde at once. Until we've a steadfast reply, we will give every courtesy and consideration for our guests. Within reason."

"Within reason."

Ser Able sighed. "Ser Zalbaag shall be departing on the morrow. He aims to enlist the aid of trusted knights in Lesalia before moving Her Highness to Eagrose."

Hardly enough time for a reply from Mullonde. Plans would need changing. "I will learn what I can from Her Highness, then." Mayhap they could recover from this disaster…

"Excellent, I'll leave this in your capable hands then," he said. They separated with pleasantries towards their new tasks.

Meliadoul's mind went to the first question she couldn't ask as she stepped in front of the door. What had become of Ramza and Delita?

She knocked softly. "Your Highness, I introduce myself as Dame Meliadoul of the Knights Templar. I ask your permission to enter."

Silence was her answer.

Enough time passed as pleasant before Meliadoul repeated herself. And after that, she had to change her tone. "I'm afraid I must intrude should you keep silent, for your safety and well-being."

A low noise (a scoff? A laugh?) ran from within.

She was being difficult. What details had not been disclosed between the relevant parties? But for whom the fault lain did little at the moment. She took the noise as permission.

Gently, she opened the door. (Her Highness seen fit to not rebel enough to lock, at least.) And there she lay, her face buried in the pillow of her new bed.

"Forgive my presumptuous entrance, milady," said Meliadoul. "Your health is of paramount concern."

The Princess twisted her head. Just enough to peak her jaw free, but her fuller face remained buried. "Spare us both this misery and leave me be."

If that was her attitude, would that she could… "I will leave you to your privacy then, Highness. But I shall remain nearby for any want you desire."

Whatever response the princess scoffed was lost once more into the pillow.

Meliadoul kept down a frustrated sigh… until she departed and loosed it too loudly. To find Her Highness such a spoiled brat was an upset. Some difficulty in evidence of her struggles was understandable, but the girl seemed to lack the grace one presumed of Royalty.

Good and well then she would be removed from the throne.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: What's to say? It took four months to write this sloppy, not-at-all-interesting mess of a chapter. Maybe the next shall be, sometime in 2017...**

 **Guest: Simply put, I forgot about it. 'Tis not a strategy I ever made use of myself, despite knowing how powerful it was.**

 **Asahar4: Balthier's easy enough for a write-in that I already have the framework. Wouldn't be hard to tie it with Cloud-Aerith too, then. The twins I have a clear enough objective for. Rapha less so, but she'll be showing up somewhere.**

 **Hussain64: Sloppiness and depression. This was trying and boring chapter to write and I really should have just timeskipped to something interesting happened. It is entirely possible if I write the next one I'll just flat-out delete this and cover it all in half a paragraph.**

 **If there were any Favorites or Follows, thanks. Thank you all for reading and have a good 2016.**


	55. Chapter 54: His Vow

**Chapter 54: His Vow  
**

Sleep came in fits and bursts and meals came in regularly. Ovelia faced neither with grace or poise. She was a prisoner and a tool and saw fit to make it difficult for anyone to use her as they saw fit. All the meager power she held. But whoever held her had the power of kings.

What little effect she could enact was leaving food to spoil half-eaten. The needs of her body still required attention but she would not accept their "charity" so kindly. With no sun to see, worse than any monastery's walls, the meals were all she had to track time.

The Templar girl was her only company, bringing the food, showing intent and refreshing candles when needed. Ser Zalbaag had left. She would be gone before he returned. Three days now, if her mind's count kept true. Agrias wasn't coming. This was all just another ploy by that Ramza.

She was a fool to believe in his words. A fool, a fool, a fool.

A knock broke her berating and Ovelia ducked under the sheets. She would not grant them the dignity they wanted.

For the first time in days, it was a man's voice that came through. The Master of this base, the Templar Able.

She refused his pretense of pleasantry and permission to enter.

He came in anyway. As did the girl, an older man in purple and a helmeted Templar in blue.

"Come now, Your Highness, do not hide beneath those covers," Able said. "'Tis not proper for a Princess to cower so."

What did he know of a princess's etiquette? She glared at him—them.

"'Tis not," said the Templar in purple, his voice as gruff as his face shown. "So only fitting, mayhap."

She threw free her comforts and stood to his provocation. "I will not take such slander from one who takes me prisoner!"

"So she's some fire within her, at least." He glanced at the amenities of the room. "Too lavish a quarters for such a false princess."

The world narrowed to one word she could not even utter. _What?_

"My?" Able's lips curled into a smug grin, "it seems she was not aware, Lord Folmarv."

"She lacks in wits as she lacks in blood."

The lightning that paralyzed her ignited a fire that had her demand, "What is it you speak of?"

"I shall make this as plain as your blood: You are not Ovelia Atkascha."

No… no… no! "You lie!"

"The only lie here is your title. The true princess passed many years ago, you are but a double."

"Absurd! I am… I am Atkascha."

He shook his head. "Demanda II's line ended with Ondoria III's death. You are _not_ Ovelia. You are no more Atkascha than anyone in this room, or the boy-prince Orinus. You are but a puppet to be controlled by strings of many shades. Placed in a princess's crib that held none true. Councillors, indignant by Louveria's heavy-handed ruling, set you to succeed the throne and remove the Queen from power. With poison disguised as malady, the two elder princes were removed, but none could imagine that the sickly King could produce a third."

The man chuckled. "Mayhap because he could not. It matters naught whose seed the third prince came from save that he was sired. Duke Larg now stands as Queen's brother and Prince's regent, undoing Council work years in the making."

Words and tales and a grand conspiracy. Her world spun. She settled on the one point she had. "You spin a tale so grand I'll not believe!"

"Take the truth or lambast the lies it is little consequence. Butcher, tailor, trader—thief may be your father for all it concerns.

No, it was lies. All lies. She was sure of it. "No, I am a daughter of House Atkascha. I will not give in to the likes of you." And nothing this man said could dissuade proof.

"You show spirit for a false princess," he said, in that same infuriating gruff, dismissing tone, "but do not think a stone etched Virgo makes you a princess true. 'Tis even easier to move a chunk of rock than a person."

He knew of the auracite? Had Elder Simon informed them? Or… No… no, she couldn't, couldn't dare acknowledge the possibility.

"Do as you've always done and play the part you were given, girl. Lest you are more enticed by Larg's offer of a noose. Smile pretty, eat well and pray to the Gods. You've no purpose other and allies none."

Would even Agrias, and the others…? Lionsguard shield for no lion… "Who are you?" she asked. She knew the answer, and yet… "Why go so far?"

It was the one question that seemed to pause the man before he answered. "We are the will of the people. No ally of Larg nor friend to Goltanna. Champion for the commons and the commons' princess."

It took all her flagging strength to simply not collapse into bed. His words couldn't possibly be true. She could not have been prisoner all her life for nothing.

"Your reluctance runs low..." He faced the other Templars. "We depart. Let her shoulder the truth alone." He turned once more to her, his eyes still uncaring. "When reality takes hold of your senses give word. You've your place to take."

The one in blue stopped their exit, whispered something Ovelia could not hear or care and earned a response from the man in purple. "Very well," he said.

Three left.

The one in blue remained.

Lies to even leave her alone now.

She couldn't maintain her shaking legs any longer and dropped to the mattress. Every breath she took short and harsh and painful.

He(?) moved forward. "Leave me be!" she shouted at him.

Her words stopped him straight. The first time since she was separated from Agrias that her orders were heeded.

"Why did you stay?" Anything to keep her mind away from what lurked…

"You know why." His voice that had grown so familiar so fast preceded the removal of his helm and a face filled with pity. "I am sorry," Ramza said.

"Sorry?" She could scarce believe the audacity. "Tis your fault! All of it!" Her voice returned horse and painful, the same when she screamed at Zalbaag Beoulve. "You meant to use me all the same as them! No matter if your words were gentler I was just some common tool to you." She paused at the word. "I _am_ just some common…"

She should not believe it so easily… yet she could not recall her Lord Father's—King Denamda's face. Only in pictures had she seen his visage. And never once had she met her half-brother, her aunt, or nephew. No members of family, even distant.

"Princess". Always attached to her name when she first recognized it as her own. Monastery to monastery, all thinking she was Princess and auracite Virgo claim as proof: sovereign symbol of the Royal Family.

"There are no words I may offer to lessen this burden," he said, morose. What right did he have to feel for her!?

She could not choose between crying or laughing at the cruelties fate played upon her. Whatever gargled out sounded like a cough that stung her sore throat worse. "Your plan lies dead as true Ovelia does. No purpose remaining by my side." _Who even am I…?_ she wondered. "No purpose even in my living."

"Do not say that!" he snapped. A harshness that made her recoil. A harshness he never displayed so unburdened. "I… I'm sorry…" he recovered his composure. "Please, do not consider final thoughts," his face as grim as the subject he spoke of.

"Do not feign care," she demanded of him. "I was but a means to your end. A princess, a princess, a princess and I am one no longer." Why did she believe so deeply the Templar's words? "A princess to be used. By you, by them. Always used." She slumped and her vision came dominated by her royal dress. A princess's royal dress. She was not fit for such finery, even ragged as it became.

There was no sharp rebuttal from him. She wanted him to leave, just go away. But she also wanted him to stay. To bear the barbs of her words.

She once more looked up, at him. And the look upon his face begat her pause. He seemed more wounded by her words than the swords and magicks that struck him whilst protecting her—no, protecting a Princess.

"I make excuses no more…" he slowly drawled out. "No matter how much I convinced myself 'twas meant to be partnership, 'twas naught but use. Yes, I—we, sought to use you. Use your title for our own vision, heedless of your own input. Use what we thought to abolish to garner our aims.

"Do not _dare_ make this about yourself," she growled.

"'Tis the opposite," his voice dropped calm, "Your Highness—no, Ovelia, beyond the trappings of royalty, the plotting of Templars, lions and whether your blood runs blue or red: I ask this of you, what is your wish?"

Wish…? Wish? To be taken from this room. To have never met this man. To have never been dragged into the likes of a princess's life. To have a life her own! Nothing he could ever deliver. Magicks might be to slow, stop and speed time but none could turn a clock back.

"I don't know," she answered. "Just not… this."

"Then we away," he stated simply. "Board ship for distant shores where Ivalice is but considered trade talk and rumor."

Run… run from it all. No title to weigh her down. No assassins come take her head to instill a baby as king. No Dukes to use her. But no skills to prop her up. "I've no hand at threading a needle," she slowly said, "no knowledge to bake bread or make meals. I cannot farm, I cannot fish. No magicks but one. I've been but a princess, ever. There is nothing beneath that title. No talents, no worth." She paused at her realization. "No name."

She was nothing.

"That magick saved my life…"

"You would throw your dreams and aspirations, tie yourself to me, for that?" She felt the tears come, finally. "For what?" she demanded of him. More than anything she wanted this answer. Either of "her" was worthless yet he contented to the one with even more nothing.

Through her teary eyes she saw him pause. Saw him contemplate. When he spoke, each word was deliberate, and heavy. "What I say, cannot compare, cannot dare ever reach the depths of what you've suffered."

He took a deep breath. "I would throw away all that I have because I have done so before. When I could no longer partake of the path laid for me I left it and found one of the Gods. And I would abandon that one as well to see you safe."

"How then, do I have assurances that you'd stay the course with me?"

"Hear why I left and I shall yield all judgement unto you. My family, a knight's family, rose me to follow in the steps in chivalry, even save my mother's common birth. Above his peers' protests my father raised me with my siblings both true and half. I aspired to be a knight such as he and my lord brothers. But my Lord Father passed, and my lord brothers did not live to his example."

This story gnawed familiar… But how…?

"They sought war when there should have been peace. Abused their station. Made vile plans. But I remained ignorant and loyal, 'til they ordered the death of innocent that could be saved."

His hand tightened into a fist. "For convenience, for prestige. For their _name_. For their name they killed my friend's sister. If murder was to be our name's sake I would throw it away. I did throw it away." He clutched his fist to his chest, over his heart. "As I would throw it all away, once again, to help you."

He took knee, faced her directly with a smile gentle, yet resolved. "Whether you be princess true or commons' nameless; whether you have skill to save life or none at all. I make this vow to you: I will see your wish fulfilled. Should you wish to flee I shall find you swiftest transport. If you would fight I would be your shield. Should you desire the throne I will be your knight. If you place no value in your life than I will value it myself. If you reign as cruel as those who would use you I would put a stop to it. If you cry, I will dry your tears. If you would desire a kingdom where none suffer as you do, I will make it reality. A world where you smile, rather than cry."

Promises and stories. How she wanted to believe it. How she wanted it to be true. She trusted so quickly her name was false. She could trust such earnest intent. "Is such a world even possible?"

"I will lie not. A road such as that would be fraught with even more dangers. Though we may yet stumble on the way, though tears may yet stain our cheeks more than a smile graces it, I believe a better Ivalice awaits. For your sake, I will not fail."

His fist clutched to heart loosened, and he offered it to her. With smile warm and gentle as she'd ever seen.

"On my name Ramza Beoulve, I swear to you."

All inclinations to take his hand froze at his name. Beoulve sought her head, Beoulve brought her here, and now Beoulve took her from Orbonne.

"You're Alma's trueborn brother…" she gasped. Alma had never told her his name. History lessons had Barbaneth, Dycedarg and Zalbaag written every other page. But Alma and her brother were never mentioned.

"Alma?" his shock was great as her own. "You know my sister?"

"We met at Orbonne. We talked of our lives. Of our imprisonments. She taught me the grass whistle." Even if she wasn't good at it.

"Our Lord Father taught us."

"You would abandon your sister, for me?"

All the cheer he held and melted away into contemplation. "I would abandon neither of you."

"You claim the future cruel, so I ask a cruel question: would you choose Alma over me?"

"I would find some manner to aid you both."

"We know reality is not so kind to offer such a convenience."

"Even still… I've no desire to be a man who chooses between sister and you."

She dropped her head, a faint smile growing on her lips, one he could not see.

That was the answer she wanted to hear. The one she _needed_ to hear. If he was man to make such decision she could place no trust in him. It mayhap be a childish trick, and yet…

She still cried. As she lifted her head high and faced him with a smile genuine. Tears shed for happiness, first in her life. "Do not dry these tears," she ordered him.

For the first time since she was taken from Orbonne's walls did she feel her life was her own.

All the trembling power she had pushed her forward to embrace him.

The divides of space and class gone with acts and words.

He, more shocked than even she, at her boldness, did return that affection.

Ovelia smiled.

* * *

 **AN: Less than a month between Chapters? What witchcraft is this? Yeah, this one was way, way easier to write than the prior, even accounting for literal days of blockage trying to get the vow write.**

 **Guest: Thank you for your Review. I'm trying. This Chapter was a great deal easier to put down, hopefully the next ones will too.**

 **reyria: Thank you for your Review. Well, here we go with Ovelia! Mashing two scenes together.**

 **Hussain64: Thank you for your Review. I'm doing the best I can be doing, I suppose. This was sort of a psuedo-timeskip but details will be filled in later.**

 **Thank you all for reading, and putting up with my eccentric schedule, and have a stupendous day.**


	56. Chapter 55: Her Vow

**Chapter 55: Her Vow**

All shock at their closeness broke. The embrace stifled and a return to form. Yet no longer were their burdens a valley separating their worries and station. A bridge had been spun, one named "Alma".

No longer gripped by pleasant touch, they sat alongside one another, bed frame and mattress as their backing. Hands still lingering close against the other's, but not quite a touch. Redness shared in equal measures enough to be bold against royal red cloak.

Honesty. Concern.

"Agrias waits in town," said Ramza, breaking their pleasant peace. "The others some ways south."

"Lionsguard for no lion," said Ovelia.

They could not say so for certain. "Lady Agrias's actions have struck me such she would defend you were you commons."

"It's been a year, since I met Agrias, and Alicia and Lavian and Annabelle," she said, her head turning down. "They were dispatched to me after the king's passing. Not long after Alma left."

"For Eagrose Preparatory Akademy." And Tietra.

"It was a relief, to still have someone to speak to, even if I was a princess first to them." Ovelia shook her head. "I think… I think they will accept me… but they've known me for near a year, you've but a week, and already willing to throw it all away." A lighter mood may have graced a chuckle from her lips. "My wish, was to be never born a princess, and yet now that it's true, I'm still to be treated as one."

In a manner, 'twas his action that accomplished said wish.

"I do not know what I want," she painfully admitted. "To run, to feign, to rebel? Or play the part of the puppet? These appeal me none."

Mayhap another way existed, separate from those, but such method eluded Ramza's thoughts. "Then we find an idea appealing."

"Such as?"

"Truthfully, I've not thought that far ahead," he admitted. "Perchance is there some skillset you have?"

She shook her head. "The most hardy manual labor I've ever been handed was chocobo riding," she said. "A princess cannot strain herself needlessly. I learned no physical crafts, no cooking, no knitting, no weapons. What little magick taught was to protect myself. Even clothing myself, servants have done more of. The most trying task I'd ever had was turning the page of a book."

"Statecraft? The histories of men and gods, then?"

"I was to be no leader—ever," she bitterly answered. "I would know no more of statecraft than a peasant off the streets. Mayhap more of Saint Ajora's teachings than some… but I've little touch of His love when His servants bind me such." She gave a weak look towards him.

White Lion corrupt. Church corrupt. Black Lion surely corrupt. Was their no other men of integrity left in Ivalice?

"You're angry," she said, breaking him free of his turmoil. "I never thought I'd see someone angry for my sake."

"I…" he had difficulty finding words to follow up. "All I see are ways that would hurt you." Dammit, this was the Ivalice Lord Father died for!? "And my wish is to see you unharmed." He'd swore, time and time again to never let another victim like Tietra come to fore and this time he saw fit to mean it.

"It is far too late for such things…" She turned away once more.

The mood fouled even worse. "Was there anything you enjoyed during your stay at Orbonne?" An open, and bluntly lousy, change of subject.

"Pardon?"

"You must hold some happy memories, yes?"

"There was my talks with Alma…" she lightly answered. "Or when I was taught to ride. It was ever rare I was allowed outside the monastery. I relished the open sky. Imagined riding free and far away." Her head tilted towards the ceiling, her mind clearly filled with a picture of her words. "Never once did I think I would grasp that freedom whilst being kidnapped."

Ramza fliched backwards from the slap of reality.

"It was the first time in my life I'd ever been treated so brusquely, the first time anyone had never been violent near me."

"Y-you handled it with grace…" he stammered out.

"I think… you were ever only the fourth man to…" her face reddened a fair bit more… "grace my personage with a direct touch."

He desperately wanted to avert his gaze and face reddening so deeply it felt like fire.

"My Lord Father… or mayhap my normal father or any other dozens of nobles when I was a babe. The Elder of my first monastery, whose name I cannot recall. Always did he distance himself from me, save the time of my anointing. Elder Simon, who was always so kind and patient with me." A short smile tugger at her lips when she spoke of the Elder Simon. "And then you, so fierce and aggressive. So painfully strong I could not dare struggle."

Always in his mind he came to aid her. But even still, 'twas to aid Princess before Ovelia.

"But just right before, you were so… gentle, so warm…" she now definitely smiled. "I prefer, that you…"

"Ovelia…"

"Would you remove your gauntlet, for me?"

 _What for?_ he thought as he removed it. The room was stuffy enough that the rush of air did little to cool his slightly sweaty palm.

Even still, Ovelia placed the fingertips of her left hand atop it. She was hesitant, not quite fearful… but such an initiative had been rare to her before.

She slowly traced the lines of his palm. To his calluses. Finally she spread her fingers wide and laced them through his. Their palms met. They held each other firmly.

Her hand was soft. Softer than anything he'd ever touched. Mother, Alma, nor the other noble girls at the Akademy had hands so soft.

Nor were any so pleasantly warm.

He almost wished this delight could continue forever.

"Your hands are rough," she said, "like the paper in a tome." She moved her free right over and clasped it over their joining. "But I would hold your hand with more rapt attention and pleased smile than I did any book."

"I've held many a manner of weapons, learned many a trade to kill," he grimly recounted. His eyes darted to the hand still covered. He could not-unclasp the gauntlet one-handed. "Always did I want to be a shield, but ever did I swing a sword. Ovelia, thank you." He squeezed her back, just a pinch.

"Thanking me? For what?"

"For being you."

"Hardly a thing worthy of thanks."

"It was you who took chance on my words, you who casted protective magicks upon me and you who dragged me in from near death," he honestly said. "Not the princess of Ivalice, you, Ovelia."

She gave pause a moment, contemplating his words. "My choices… I am glad, at the very least, this has come to pass because of them." Her grips tightened, just a tad. "The only other decision I made for myself, was to take up the grass whistle."

"From Alma."

"I saw her playing, one day, in secret. The clergy would have had a fit, had they know ladies of the blood played with grass. But I insisted." She moved free her right hand and placed it near her lips. "Even if I could never quite get the technique of it."

"Our Lord Father taught us, our lord brothers, even our friends. It was the only time I'd see him look pleased coming home from the war." By the time Ramza understood the nature of war, Ordallia had begun its counterattack. "He said he prefered the small bits of joy that the music made to all the blood he'd spilled."

"I never met my Lord Father, or my regular father, or mayhap I have, ignorant of my origins, whatever they are," she whispered. "I looked forward to Eagrose, to see my blood, however distant. Someone who cared for me beyond the title 'princess', I hoped."

She turned and faced him fully. "And I have, even were it not in the manner I expected."

"Ovelia…"

"Agrias, Lavian, Alicia, Annabelle. Maybe even Alma… they might take my side. They might trust me even were I not a princess. But they've known me months, or years," she said. "We've known each other but days and always in danger and trouble. Yet you would challenge all the armies of this world for me. I do not think there a man like you in all of Ivalice, Ramza Beoulve."

"You overvalue me."

"I could not name one person in history to whom your acts are equal."

This was simply too much. To paint him as some portrait of heroism. "If I were so great as you yet claim I would have not let this come to pass. Any of it." For as much as this moment meant… For what he felt now… He would trade it to safeguard her from any of the misery that preluded it.

She shook her head at his refusal. "No one did stop it. They set it in motion. You are the one who is here with me now. Not a name like Saint Ajora, or a legend like the Hero King Mesa. Or even Barbaneth Beoulve." She clutched his hand with both hers once more. And squeezed. "If you would place value in my life than I will do the same to you. To what you mean to me."

And what now did she mean to him back?

"I make this wish to you, Ramza Beoulve: remain by my side."

Yes… it was clear, wasn't it? "That, I will oblige."

And she smiled at him. For him. That pretty smile of hers that seemed to truly complete her. She was pretty, she always was, but he'd kept such observations sheltered down. Down as he'd always been taught. The freedom of such was never aloted to highborn.

But now…

Now… now he wished that smile to ever define her. For the beat of his heart to continue apace whenever he saw her, whenever he simply thought of her. No, even that was not quite right. There were no simple thoughts of Ovelia…

Was this what Lord Father felt when he met Mother?

She moved their combined hands up, and placed the ball to her forehead. "I will make a vow of my own: whatever the nature of my birth, no matter the lines of war or should we flee… So long as our fates are entwined, and even should they part by some tragedy, I will do my best to make you happy too."

He placed his forehead now to their hands. "You've already done that."

Ramza smiled.

* * *

 **AN: Soonish means nearly two days after. Gah. Anyway, I also renamed the prior Chapter to "His Vow". This Chapter wasn't going to exist at all, but I went through a bad episode recently I needed something fluffy and lovey-dovey to recuperate and out came that.  
**

 **Eli:** **Thank you for your Review. And here it is! Upcoming Chapters should be less far apart, hopefully.  
**

 **a new fan of you:** **Thank you for your Review and fangirl feelings and future favorite/follow if that comes. Well, here's a bit more of my work! And now Ovelia's made a vow all her own. A delicious additional counterpoint to Delita/Ovelia hehehe.  
**

 **Heika:** **Thank you for your Review. It can be difficult treading the line between over-powered and weak. Act 2 Ramza starts at the same power as Act 1 End Ramza despite a year's worth of mercenary work. Presumably.  
**

 **Heika:** **Thank you for your Review. Yep, yep, yep.  
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 **Guest:** **Thank you for your Review. "(Lucky her.)" referred to "(Lucky Meliadoul)" as she was lucky to be treated as a special guest of the Marquis.  
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 **Archaicx1: Thank you for your Review. Well, Delita's gonna be stealing something but not what Ramza/Ovelia have shared...  
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 **Thank you new Favorites and Follows. Thank you all for reading and have a vigorous day.**


	57. Chapter 56: Broken Vows

**Chapter 56: Broken Vows**

Folmarv had delivered the speech to "Her Highness" and now marched back to Able's office with the Master and his daughter in tow. Beoulve's wish to remain behind, in case she made attempt on her life, was sound, and he let him.

It may well be the last thing he allowed the Beoulve.

Things had gone awry in so varied ways 'twas a miracle granted by the Gods he made it to Bervenia in the first place. "Those sellswords of Dorter you recommend proved inadequate for the task," he told Meliadoul.

"My apologies, Lord Father," she said. "I thought they desperate enough to assault Lionsguard for fair pay. I lacked the foresight to anticipate the arrival of Zalbaag Beoulve."

Few do not flee at the sight of Zalbaag Beoulve. Working around the Northern Order commander was a difficult sight.

Little relief it was that the Ark Knight's sudden appearance convinced Folmarv to head northwards rather than Lionel. 'Twas an inkling he could not shake, yet it had yielded the benefits similar to Lionel.

"Able, I need messengers ready to Mullonde and Esclabor at once."

"Of course, Grand Master."

Able had already sent one south, but now with Folmarv's command they may yet get their chance at sending Ovelia east. Esclabor and Folles were needed once they were finished with Grimms.

But these delays would require a swifter response elsewhere. Retrieving Virgo was set for whence the war started in earnest and no eyes were south. They'd simply need to shift blame for the sack. Whichever faction was the stronger.

"To think," Meliadoul put to voice, "she was no princess at all."

Folmarv couldn't hold back a chuckle.

"Is all the fighting for a girl not royal so humorous, Lord Father?"

"The veracity of my words is no matter. What does is that they were said. Her confidence breaks and buckles under the possibility more than the truth."

"Is she Princess true, then?"

"The truth that matters is our strings move her limbs." They arrived at the office. "Ready the Templarate."

"Yes, ser."

Folmarv entered the office alone and took Able's seat. He quickly worked the messages that needed written and sealed them.

Now came the more difficult problem. Beoulve.

Of both stripes their actions have been difficult. For Ramza to make for Bervenia rather than Lionel pointed towards Heiral's including him into the plot. It was an expected outcome, precisely why the High Confessor had allowed it. Their time fighting for the Church, and Heiral's confrontation with the Lucavi were in favor of him remaining loyal.

But the ever-tiresome Beoulve justice seems to have gotten in the way. Well, that was what Folles was for, should it come to it. 'Twould be easier for Ramza to be party to Ovelia eastwards than any other Templar. Let him be the soft hand to Folmarv's rough.

Zalbaag was an army's worth of difficulties his own. Outright killing him would be a daunting prospect, and a poor use of manpower for a would-be-Brave. But letting him enflame the fires of war by chasing the princess into Zeltennia was a wonderful idea.

He'd not seen through Orbonne, as Able informed him. He'd not see through another attack of black crests.

A knock disturbed his silence and informed him the messengers were ready and they'd found Lionsguard in town.

Ramza lacked the skill to hide a companion from them. He ordered watch on the woman. Until he had more talk with the Beoulve best to hold off on removing her.

He sent the message off to Mullonde and sent order to retrieve Beoulve at hour's end. Give him some time to placate the girl first before letting Meliadoul return to her post.

It was also a welcome respite for his own body. Keeping away from Northern patrols and common routes of travel on foot was growing intolerable. The difficulties of avoiding eyes both White and Black were even more tiresome.

But the belief for a better Ivalice kept him marching on.

Yes… when this had all become a matter of history

"Ser?"

Ramza's words through the door broke Folmarv free from the daze he was unaware he'd fallen into. His hand was clutching the Leo Stone.

He hurriedly put it away. "Enter."

The Templar Beoulve entered, his helmet clutched at his side and his face flushed red. Ovelia's prison and her accusations no doubt flustering the young man.

"I'm going over the circumstances of your arrival," Folmarv announced. "In light of the excessive difficulties reaching Lionel, and your inability to secure pass through Beslat, altering your course north was the wiser decision. The Northern Order's ambush was unforeseen by our watch." He stood up from the chair. "You shall take Heiral's place in presenting Her Highness to Duke Goltanna."

"I lack such connections…" he replied.

"You meant to meet with the Marquis Limberry, did you not?"

The boy tensed at the name. He was no Dycedarg Beoulve, this one. "Beoulve who defied his lord brothers' schemes to rescue Her Highness will play nicely for Duke Goltanna's ears."

"How sounds a princess false then?"

"A convenient tool, exactly what the Black Lion wants of her."

"And you."

"What of it?" he poised the question.

"It is wrong to force her."

"Yes, it is." His words were a slap to Ramza's face.

"Then why persist?"

"Would you kill her?"

"Never!"

"You've killed before."

"To protect others."

"And to kill her would to protect Ivalice from war." Folmarv turned his palms towards Beoulve. "How many would be saved for the life of one girl? Thousands? Tens of—hundreds? More? One death, and there would be no strife over who should be the head that bears the crown."

"No," Ramza steadfastly state, "such thinking is deplorable. The fault lies on those who marshal to war, not said victims of it."

"Well said, Ramza." Folmarv nodded and placed his hands behind his back. "And that is exactly what our aims are. What your aims are."

"Yet you push for war!"

"War to be rid of men like Dycedarg and Goltanna. To remove Luveria from her jewel-encrusted throne. A war to be rid of war."

"Yet war it remains."

"Yes, a thing of war. Wrong and vicious in all its counts!" Folmarv raised his voice. "So wrong as letting fetid rot of nobility cling and infect the body of Ivalice. There is no removing men of power without sacrifice. A position understandable by any, be they highborn or low."

"'For the greater good' you imply yet the sacrifices are always those caught beneath. When I looked into Ovelia's eyes I did not see understanding. I saw tragedy."

So, he'd taken maiden's hand of his own volition. Mayhap he took after his father most of all then. "And you avert this tragedy how? You've but your sword and a girl not even royal."

"Because I've no plan does not mean there isn't one."

"You speak in nothings. Not even Heiral would follow such schlock."

"Do not speak as if you know him."

Folmarv scoffed. "I know him better than you. Every chance we dangled for him to prove his worth he took without hesitation. When this plan came to fore he leapt at the opportunity. Men like him, born powerless, cloy at whatever strength they can get, however meager. He bore no hesitation to align his goals with ours. He would not be party to some fleet of fancy about saving a princess were it not worth something to him."

The poor boy could not even shout it a lie. He knew. Heiral informed him already.

It was an opening. "You see power and ambition as some form of evil," said Folmarc. "But without your ambition to do good and enforce it you would not be standing here before me."

"I see things as they are," said Ramza.

"Then see this: Should you be as knight errant and save yonder town from bandits you would swell with pride. But those bandits did fight to eat."

"I know well the woeful tale of the Corpse Brigade and do not prattle on about me thinking otherwise."

"And so after did the lord's army come and crush the village. If you had but taken a choice earlier you could have prevented such. But you avoided the perils of it to keep clean your conscience. I ask you, Ramza Beoulve, what matters more to you: your conscience or what is right?"

He shook his head. "I act not for one or the other but both."

"And men die whilst you seek it!" Folmarv raised his voice. "Yes, perchance there is some path miraculous wherein good acts and good conscience go hand-in-hand but we live in no such world. If we are to be deemed evil so be it. The lives saved by our acts will outweigh those lost."

"You weigh a life so easily."

"I am a Templar," Folmarv sternly said. "Grand Master of the Order. My work is to weigh the lives of those who give their service to the Church. Yes, I weigh a life. As any man with responsibilities must. As you do." Folmarv pointed at Beoulve. "As you did when you chose Ovelia over Delita."

His words stopped Ramza as well as the time magick did.

"Every night you second-guess yourself. 'Was that the right decision?' and firmly place yourself 'yes' but always does the doubt gnaw at your mind. Every time you see her—but not him, you're reminded of your act." Folmarv rested his hand behind his back once more.

It was easy to see what played through Ramza's mind. "I did what was necessary. What I thought was best. What was right. I trust Delita." But it didn't matter. It was an act entirely of his own choosing and one with no easy answer. An act completely at odds with his simplistic worldview.

"You have entered the stage where there are no easy choices for you. For Ovelia."

That seemed to snap him from his stupor and he roared back. "I will meet my consequences with Delita later but that gives you no more right to use Ovelia either."

Stubborn Beoulve blood. "We fight for her sake. A poor girl used and abused by men she's never met. She is the very embodiment of the corruption of the nobility."

"For her sake? Your words were as vicious as a blade."

"The truth often is." Folmarv glared. "Keeping her ignorant of her origins would be cruel as a Lucavi." _As if he would know._

"And to insult and patronize—coerce her as you do so? Would you count that a kindness?" Ramza asked.

"It is preparation for the life she must lead whether that is sat on a throne of lies or a chair in the countryside."

"I'll scarce believe she'll be free to live by your plan's end."

So, his thoughts went straight to killing the girl? Folmarv should have seen that coming. This whole line of conversation was gross a waste of time brought about by assumptions. "There is no need to kill her. She is precisely the type of person our actions are to save."

"You consider this saving?"

"As much as we did safeguard Corpse Brigade. Wiegraf Folles. A ship full of slaves. _Her_ ," he harshly said. "You would write us the villains in some grand script but you've borne witness over and over of our altruism."

Beoulve fury cooled. "I admit, I have seen good—done good here. But I cannot endorse forcing her cooperation as due payment for saving her life."

"All people want payment. The spark for the Corpse Brigade's plight was for payment. The Northern Sky who challenged Lionsguard fought for payment. Often in gil others for power, status and favor. Our payment for services rendered would simply be her continuing to be herself."

"Herself? You could offer her sanctuary beyond the reach of those who see her head as mere prize. But instead you force her into role she does not want."

This was an endless cycle. There would be no convincing him. A pity. He had the talent name and convictions. This was a useful test of the rhetoric for others. Refinement would be in order. "It seems neither of us will budge on this matter." Folmarv shook his head. "Very well, take the girl. Go where you will. Though you'll need a another week's worth of supplies if you head east. Feeding six people on three's rations is far from ideal. Chocobos too, of course."

"I've refuted every claim you make and yet still you offer patronage? This is some trick."

Folmarv shook his head. "We are not the villains here, Ramza Beoulve, we seek the same goal. I'll not kill you or her when you've done nothing to deserve it." Let Folles deal with him and end this distraction. Esclabor could take over as liaison to the east. Without support, the "princess" would offer no obstacle.

"And what if we simply flee beyond the Church's grip? No party to this ploy and no soil of Ivalice beneath our feet."

Folmarv had to pause and reconsider that he'd just heard him so boldly announce his plans. Ramza could have simply lied his way through this whole meeting but kept to his staunchness to stupidity. He and the Folles of prior were distressingly alike.

This threaded Folmarv's patience now. "We could continue this discourse 'til your lord brother returns if you'd prefer. I'd expect him before sundown."

The mention of Zalbaag was enough to slap some sense into the boy. "I'll find a path without such support."

 _Presumptuous brat._ "Fancy yourself king already?"

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me you—" Folmarv noticed the shock arrayed on the boy's face. Wide-eyed and gasping. He'd taken a step or two back, arms wide. His helmet clattered to the floor. This was not some play or lie. The witless fool hadn't actually considered it.

Folmarv was almost as shocked as Ramza was. Though he certainly kept his composure better.

"Well," Folmarv coughed, "regardless of such intent. You lack in time and no matter your direction Zalbaag shall have chocobos to chase you. Accept this lest you seek another lose at your Lord Brother's hands."

An awkward amount of time passed before Ramza recovered and numbly nodded. Without further word, he departed.

Folmarv sighed whence alone. There was idealism, and then there was the jape that was Ramza's sense of justice. A pity it had to be cut short. But the Beoulve gamble had failed to see returns so it was time to cut their loses.

Ovelia needed some manner of kindness to open her mind to the Church's benevolence and the tried and true too honest Beoulve would be certain to tell her they'd consented her departure. 'Twould be less effort than forcing her, even with magicks.

If Folles failed in eliminating Ramza then the spy would do. Revealing the Church's complacency wouldn't be believed by Messam and even if such the Black Lion wouldn't dare damage its relations with a third party during onset of war.

This was not ideal but it was within their control.

Now they needed bleeding and dead to flag for the Southern Sky crossing over. There should be enough vagrants to be shoved in uniforms to play the victim.

Folmarv grasped Leo as he wrote, and sent his letters. Work never ceased.

* * *

"Mustadio, Besrudio, would you consent to appearing in the trial for Baert?" asked Delita. The testimony of a handful of gryphons was already enough to ruin Baert, but this would get Taurus to Lionel without suspicion.

"Of course." Mustadio nodded.

Delita flashed a smile. "Excellent." Let the Cardinal handle convincing the mechanist part with the auracite and Delita could return to Ramza and the Princess.

Besurdio struggled up himself, forcing his weight on a makeshift cane they'd found for him. "I'll have some choice words for Baert as well."

Mustadio shook his head. "Father you can barely move. My testimony would be enough with the Gryphon's own."

It was a touching moment, but Delita wasn't of mind to listen to family bickering for an hour when every minute was precious. "I offer that Lionel has better white mages and chemists available than Goug." He turned to the Gryphons who acknowledged his presumption. "At the very least having their care would be better than dividing our forces to bodyguard your father and yourself in rate of any more intrigue by Baert."

Mustadio looked ready to debate the point but a shake of his father's head cooled his. "Very well."

"We'll depart as soon as possible. The sooner this matter is complete the better."

Delita kept to his word and delegated the responsibilities and preparations. The fading rays of the sun still held to them as they left.

They did not ride long, mayhap only half to the Fenlands before the rain, cold and dark forced encampment. Pitching tents in darkness was never a stable act but they managed with skill and magicks.

Mustadio expressed some worry about his father's health at such a ride but Delita kept him placated before sleep.

Nothing crossed their path through the Fenlands. Delita's own sickness seemed to expand even worse than the damaged Besrudio but he soldiered through and they made it to Lionel Castle in but two days.

Ser Cadmus who greeted them considered it an impressive record in the circumstances. Despite Delita's insistence on a meeting with the Cardinal under the moonlight the Knight Captain assured him they needed a day's rest. The Cardinal would still be there in the morning.

But where would Ramza be?

With no other choice Delita accepted the order and took a good night's sleep.

Morning was just as fevered as every one since he'd pulled himself from the Zeirchele River. But Delita endured his burning face and accepted the call before the Cardinal. Proper introductions and greetings were observed at the start between the various parties. The Bunansas, the Gryphon escort, Ser Cadmus, Cardinal Delacroix and a half-dozen other Gryphons for security and message-running.

The escort Gryphons gave their reports, with Delita clarifying and specifying as necessary. Then was Besrudio (who looked on the pitch of sickness himself but held up) speaking against the harshness of his imprisonment under the Baert Trading Company. Mustadio repeated the same experience he had in the prior meeting in addition to the small time Baert had him under thumb in Goug.

With each statement a Gryphon on parchment copied their words. A solid record should anything untoward occurred. Morbid business for morbid business.

The Cardinal accepted each testimony with grace and needed questions. Nodding with some and offering criticism and commentary when required. But as the situation longed the sheer weight of evidence sealed Baert's fate.

With an order he sent Ser Cadmus to bring Ludovich Baert into custody and the Gryphon Captain almost relished the order. He marched off with a full force of Gryphons and orders to make sure the company head didn't speak a word.

Ward to prevent the fat noblemen from loosing his complacency in Church's darker deeds.

With that matter settled, the Cardinal set the escorts at liberty and invited Besrudio to the castle's hospital ward (over the old mechanist's objections, but he eventually relented).

It left but the Cardinal, Mustadio and Delita alone in the room. And the one who was ignorant of why spoke up, "You've something else to speak of, Your Eminence?" asked Mustadio.

Cardinal Delacroix nodded. "You've a keen eye, young Mustadio, I'd expect no less from a man who gave a company of Baert's size no end of trouble." Flattery first; stone later. "I would lay my eyes on your Taurus Stone, if you would grace a faithful old man."

Whether simple caution or paranoid suspicion fueled him, Mustadio did not simply show his hand.

The Cardinal gave a hearty laugh to Delita's bewilderment. "Caution has its place Mustadio, you are skilled in that. But we three know deeply of the Stone's purpose," Delacroix revealed Scorpio once more, "here, here, no need to be shy."

"Of course, Your Eminence." Mustadio's reluctance ebbed away prior to his reveal of the Taurus Stone. The radiance of two Zodiac Stones of legend. How few of this age could see such wonder? Even half-hearted in faith, Delita could still feel their shine enliven him.

Though perhaps that was his body burning like flame from illness.

The old Cardinal smiled at the sight.

But something about it unnerved him…

Yes, they were attempting to return the Braves for their rule but…

It was almost fanatical.

Not out of hand for acolytes but…

"Ahhhh," the Cardinal breathed in relief. "To see two wonder of Saint Ajora at once. I feel like a young man once more."

Mustadio returned the stone to his overalls. "I am gladdened to bolden such vigor, Your Eminence."

The Cardinal returned his stone to his coat. "For the part you've played in foiling such a blackheart as Baert it is I who should be thanking you."

"H-hardly…" Mustadio looked away. Few were use to praise from one of the most powerful men in Ivalice.

"There are few in Ivalice who are as bold and good-natured as you, Mustadio."

This speech was starting to sound familiar.

"'Tis only proper a reward to be given," continued the Cardinal.

"I cannot accept money from the Church!"

Delita bit back laughter at that. How few would shout such a thing this age?

Delacroix shook his head. "I mean not simply in gil, though there is plenty of that. No, Mustadio Bunansa, I extend to you an offer to join the Templarate."

Delita could scarce believe it more than Mustadio.

Yet both Ramza and he were recruited with so little affiliation to the prior. Why not Mustadio and limit whom knew about the Zodiac Stones.

"I… I am no Church Knight, Eminence," Mustadio stammered out. "I am but simple machinist."

Delacroix shook his head. "You are bold and brave, no simple machinist at all. We've plenty who claim your skills but few with such heart. No, this offer is as true as your aim with gun and righteous cause."

What game did the Cardinal play for this? Mustadio was no Beoulve or spite-driven commons. If silencing Stone's reveal was needed a spell and sword were enough for that. If this was some replacement for Berich there were other machinists within the Templar ranks.

"I fully appreciate the offer, Eminence, truly, I do, but I am just a machinist. I could not leave Goug, or my father."

"Nor would you. You would be attached as local Templar source in Goug and liaison between your guilds. Little to do but the occasional trip, free of cost, to Mullonde or a report every so often."

An enticing offer. Money, for so little work? Obviously hooks hidden but Mustadio's circumstances were not so moneyed. Had he clout there would be no need to seek aid from Lionel, or Gryphons to reach the Cardinal.

"Even still, I cannot accept this."

Delacroix frowned. "If that is your choice."

"It is."

"A pity. Good men like yourself are in short supply these days. But now the matter comes to rest regarding the auracite you hold."

Mustadio shifted slightly, defensively. "Your meaning?"

"Purchase, of course. 'Tis holy artefact of the Church and should belong in our hands. Gil delivered for both your finding, protection and retrieval, shall be distributed. In addition to the funds for your service against Baert, to be clear."

"No… I mean, I don't…" Mustadio grimaced.

And why would he not? Split between loyalty to his saviors and a great funding and a source of power for machines from the Cataclysm.

The Cardinal's lips formed a thin line. "If I may clear your doubts."

"By all means."

"If you would agree to becoming Knights Templar, you would be granted domain to the Taurus Stone."

Ever did accepting seem the better option.

Ever clearer did the Cardinal's plan come to fore. Mustadio knew already which machines came to life from stone's influence. Though any could wave the stone about, 'twould take an expert and time for any other to determine the condition of ancient machines. The Church had a timetable to maintain and if Mustadio became difficult later he could be removed later. For now he was a risk worth taking.

Surely the same thought crossed their minds about Ramza. And now they were plotting against them. A farce it all was.

"I couldn't I wouldn't deserve such an honor," Mustadio kept to his defiance but a few shifts in his body indicated that was ebbing. He'd accept, before long, in face of all these rewards.

"'Tis no honor but what is due," said Delacroix.

"I… would take a moment to consider it. With my father."

Delacroix nodded. "Yes, of course. You're welcome to the castle's amenities 'til your decision is reached. We should have Baert in few days' time."

"Thank you, Your Eminence."

"Now, I'd like a word with Heiral in private, if you would?"

Mustadio nodded and left after some thanks to Delita.

"There were no other problems?"

"None."

"Good, good. Machine or worse—frightening." Delacroix shook at the thought.

"May I return to my prior mission, Eminence?"

"No."

" _Why!?_ " _Dammit!_

"Taurus needs to be escorted to Mullonde first, along with Mustadio."

"So certain he will accept?"

"With Baert defanged in front of him? Yes."

Delita could barely hold in a sigh. All his talk, all his work to no longer be the pawn and yet still here he was under orders and command. "And what shall keep Baert from testifying to himself as partner to the Church?"

"A great deal many things you are not to know."

How would it be when Delita gave such orders to the Cardinal?

* * *

"Your Lordship, our scouts report the Ebon Eye encampment maintains minimal defenses. They are complacent and vulnerable," Lieutenant Boyle said.

"Excellent," Baron Grimms replied. They'd put these louts to rout once and for all! "Ready the chocobos; ready the men. We end this tonight." Boyle rode down the ranks to convey the order.

The Ebon Eye had hidden in a forest fort well off the normal paths. The tree cover made them difficult to locate… but it meant they wouldn't see the attack until the chocobos were charging through their camp. All they had was a wooden palisade for walls and a few guard towers. The Chocobo Knights would pierce through their camp and secure the exits while the infantry followed up and dealt the killer blow.

"May the Gods see your victory swift and true, Your Lordship," said Esclabor.

"They certainly have!" The Baron grinned. Without Ser Esclabor or his Templar friend they'd never have located this encampment.

"The men are ready, My Lord," said Lieutenant Boyle upon his return.

"Chocobos to the walk," he ordered. It echoed back down the ranks. There could be no trumpents to command here, not while silence was their ally.

The Chocobo Knights took to the walk. The Templars to be ready with the infantry.

Quiet, more quiet than one would suspect. Armor was removed and minimized to ensure the power of surprise.

"Chocobos to the trot."

They added speed.

"Canter."

The chocobos moved faster their muscles ready for the gait ahead.

"Gallop."

They stampeded forward through the cleared path as silent as hundreds of galloping chocobos could.

With eyes adjusted to night Baron Grimms spied the forward gate of the Ebon Eye base. A handful of sentries roared in darkened surprise at the attack but it would accomplish little.

The vanguard crashed through into the base proper and took control of the simplistic gate controls. Just a pulley, no difficulty to control. He reared his men about and charged through the camp. There was a second gate, near the rear, that they needed to hold.

Archers and magicks spread their havoc on the run destroying the tents and wooden buildings making the interior of the fort.

The other gate guards were hardly more prepared than their compatriots and Baron Grimms secured it. The Ebon Eye were trapped in a camp that was slowly burning. Though only a hundred knights accompanied him 'twould be enough to hold against half-slept and under-armed Ebon Eye.

But the response was wrong. There was screaming and dying and attempts on position and those who would fight fire but the Ebon Eye had given such trouble that those few in the camp were too few. Was this some trap? Had they struck when the majority of Ebon Eye was elsewhere or were they less centralized than they're assumed?

"Lieutenant Wauter," Baron Grimms said, "take your unit 'round to the main force and inform them this was not the Ebon Eye encampment we were promised." He'd have words with those Templars at once.

"My Lord?"

His answer was cut short by the gate closing behind them—no not the gate! A new wall had popped up, the gate doors were still set against the wall. They'd been trapped inside by some sort of drawbridge.

His knights began beating at the new obstacle but Grimms turned himself to look elsewhere. Through the haze of smoke he could barely make out the same trap sprung on the other gate.

They'd fallen for it like fools but he could berate himself later. "Tear down those walls, get us out of here! Mages, keep those fires off us!" A few ice spells flung into this chaos would be little but little better than nothing.

Too many fires had sprung. The Ebon Eye weren't setting them, they were spreading them. A suicide attack. Damn these rebels!

"My Lord we can't cut through the wall!" some Lieutenant whose name Grimms couldn't recall at the moment shouted. "They're banded by iron."

Of course they were. "Find the lowest point of this palliside and scale it. We'll abandon the chocobos." Save his black.

"Understood."

'Twas a difficult prospect with eyes ruined by brilliant light and dark and stung by smoke but a section of the wall only barely above their heads was nearby.

But it was too convenient. "I'll scout first, lest we reach another ambush," said Grimms.

Baron Grimms kicked his chocobo into a flight. Difficult as it was through the smoke to fly and see he scouted the outer wall. Nothing. How long would that last?

"It's clear, climb!"

Through all the sounds that night the "twang" of the crossbow was the loudest. Grimms jerked his reigns but was too slow. His chocobo "kwehed" as the bolt pierced its wing and the both of them plummeted to the earth.

The landing was hard. Even harder was his chocobo landing on top of him, somehow.

He remained conscious, unsure how. All the pain wished it otherwise. His lower limbs were pinned, left arm too. Vision was bloody and blurry. But even when it was he'd been useless.

A man emerged from the brush, garbed darkly and armed with a crossbow colored black. Too far away for Grimms to pierce that throat with a knife. A pity.

Two more followed from the treeline. Familiar. Painful to see.

Palamedes Esclabor of the Knights Templar strode forward with a smile so smug it could have reached Paradise. He knelt down next to the dying Baron. "A pity, Your Lordship. But your sacrifice will be remembered."

"You… planned this…" It hurt to speak. To breathe.

"Obviously."

"Why…?" Grimms gathered his strength…

"Your last breaths and you ask why." Esclabor chuckled. "

Grimms drew his knife and thrusted at that vulnerable neck—the other Templar's blade was out even faster and parried the blow.

Esclabor's eyes went wide at the sight. "Ha, thanks Wiegraf."

 _Wiegraf… Folles…?_

"Don't let victory make you complacent."

 _The Church was…_ Another crossbow bolt ended Baron Grimms's life before he could finish that thought.

* * *

"Well, that's the end of that," Esclabor said as the Baron drew his last breath. "I look forward to no longer being stuck in this dreary nonsense." He faced the Ebon Eye sharpshooter. "Convey our well wishes to our friends in the Ebon Eye. We'll be on our way."

The silent crossbowman nodded and faded back into the bush. Dozens of snipers were ringed to shoot any who scaled or escaped the burning death trap. Hundreds more on the path where the Blackram infantry were marching. In less than an hour the entire Order would be exterminated and Delita Heiral could ride into Zeltennia as last of them, sent by the Baron to rescue the Princess. And with no other Blackrams to say otherwise.

A lovely cacophony of screams trailed the Templars departure.

"I mislike such slaughter," Wiegraf said.

"Growing a conscience now, of all times?"

"One does not need to like what was needed."

How delightfully bleak. "A good mug of ale in Bervenia will wash away those thoughts." Barring any sort of new orders, they were too return to the holy city on a preplanned route with the other templars in the Blackrams—former Blackrams. Such a welcome relief after the lowly conditions he'd been stuck with planning this.

* * *

A girl clad in the robes of a white mage. A boy in unadorned armor and a dame knight ran haggard. With chocobos more than twice their number and saddlebags filled to the brim. These three departed from the Free City of Bervenia.

But a pair of eyes saw it all. Saw it from beyond consideration of those around him.

His Grace's mind remained as sharp as ever. The Church maneuvered Lions to war. Now how best would he use it?

* * *

 **AN: This Chapter's length sort of got away from me. Whoops.**

 **Sethlas: Thank you for the Review and praise.**

 **Archaicx1: Thanks for the Review and calling it a great chapter.**

 **Thank you new Favorite. Thank you all for reading and have a solid day.**


	58. Chapter 57: Converging

**Chapter 57: Converging**

The winter winds stung at Agrias's face as she, Her Highness and Ramza rode together towards a meeting with the rest of the Lionsguard.

He'd been telling the truth.

She could scarce believe it, even now. But the man had passed Templar inspection, entered their barracks and retrieved Her Highness whilst Agrias sat in an inn useless.

Moreso, now they rode with chocobos for all, weeks of provisions and spare armaments.

The truth of the matter was silencing; and the Church's duplicity stung harsher than the winds.

Bervenia faded into distant view east and eventually settled out of sight. And yet even then did Agrias wait a dozen paces on road before speaking truly, "'Tis a relief to see you well, Your Highness." She could not speak as such inside the city. Not with a plain white mage's cloak adorning her to hide.

"And you as well, Agrias," the princess replied, her voice tinged short of listless.

Agrias held back a grimace. The situation took more and more a toll on Her Highness. When would it end?

"How are the others?" Her Highness asked.

In this miserable cold and with what supplies still remained…? "Well," she hoped, "it shall take us a fair amount of daylight to reach them."

"I see…" Her Highness turned downcast. "There is something I must speak of, whence we meet. Something important."

"Yes, Your Highness." And there was only one such thing that could be so burdensome. The Church was no neutral arbiter and, if Ramza's words held true as they had, than the White Lion played its cruel part in this miserly travel. There was but one recourse and little doubt.

War was coming. With all its glories. With all its horrors.

* * *

The trial for Ludovich Baert was sped along at such a pace Delita barely understood a fraction of the specifics. But what he did understand, was the look of utter boredom on the pale man's face as he was accused, found guilty and sentenced to imprisonment.

Some other deal was at play with the trading master. But whatever it was, did not concern him at the moment. Mustadio's decision regarding the Templarate and the transport of the Zodiac Stone was the more pressing priority. Once such business was concluded he could finally speed to aid the princess and Ramza.

Though, admittedly, the days of rest had done wonders for the fatigue accumulated since his plunge into the river.

Baert was led away by bailiffs, a sly smile on the man's lips even as the few dozen present glared daggers at him. With the man attraction settled, people broke away, left, or found others to speak to.

And Delita found himself in the latter camp, as Cadmus and Mustadio approached him.

"Baert seemed too confident for a man sentenced for his crimes," said Mustadio. Nevertheless, he seemed more flush with cheer than prior.

"Aye," Cadmus agreed, "I think I will order a double watch for a time. Lest any known associates think it wise to meet with the man."

"Not enough action at this trial for you, Ser Cadmus?" Delita mused. Ramza's recounting of the battle was grand.

Yet rather plain compared to what Delita had just slain at the time.

"I rather prefer trials that perform smoothly."

"No doubt."

Mustadio's face pained to ask the whys but good manners kept his mouth closed.

Delita's manners, however, lapsed. A curiosity formed. Treated so glamorously for years of dedicated service. "If I may ask, Ser Cadmus, following said prior Trial… why did you remain for this one?"

Delita had lost yet more, but even by the grace of Gods had Tietra survived, by no means could he ever have been by Ramza's brothers' sides without knife planned to murder them.

"You ask too personal a question, Ser Herial," Beowulf narrowed his eyes.

"Forgive me," said Delita. "'Tis idle curiosity, pay it no mind if it displeases you." Cadmus's reasoning would not change Delita's mind.

"My home is with Reis." To Delita's sudden surprise, Beowulf answered. "Does that answer strike you as satisfactory?"

In a manner… it did. Delita nodded. Even should all his ideals come to fruition… Tietra would not be there. How easily he would give all his meager earnings and achievements for time again with her.

"If there is nothing else?" Delita shook his head 'no'. "Very well, I've patrol schedules to arrange. Mustadio." The Temple Knight nodded and left in rather a hurry.

"I feel witness to something I shouldn't," Mustadio sternly said.

"You'll hear if it should you accept," said Delita.

"I've no ear for such gossip."

Smartly stubborn in this case. "Oh, and what have you an ear for, beyond machines of the Cataclysm?"

"'Tis not only machines of the past that catch my eye." He subtly indicated the empty holster for his firearm.

"'Twas of Romandan make, if I'm not mistaken?" Barich's rants on the superiority of guns over swords included a history lesson on the effectiveness of Romandan gunmen formations inflicting inordinate casualties compared to their fielded manpower.

Yet 'twas sword that felled Lucavi whilst gunman lied dead.

"I… yes, I should have known. Most react more severely at gun's unfamiliar make."

"Familiar enough within Templarate circles."

A small smirked tugged at the edge of Mustadio's lips. "Oh? How many more enticing prospects do you have in store?"

"I think Paradise enough to sway any man." Delita smirked back.

Mustadio gave a quick, sharp laugh. "I'd presume their quite the lack of firearms by Saint Ajora's side."

"Well, he was from before the Cataclysm…"

Mustadio covered his mouth to stop his snickering. (A few others shot him dirty looks for his mannerisms but both men ignored them.)

"Oh, fair enough," said Mustadio, his face ablaze with good cheer. "'Twould almost be enough to hear your japes on consistent basis."

"Shame to say, even should we make for Mullonde we'd not stay aside for long. I've business important, second only to search for holy artefacts."

Mustadio digested the answer and slowly nodded. "Well then, I wish you luck, Ser Herial."

"Delita," he said. "I've no claim to a title of ser."

"You're no nobleman?"

"Is that so surprising, after he offer given to yourself?"

"I, suppose it is not." Mustadio furrowed his brow. "But you've well the bearing about you?"

Lessons aplenty from Palamedes. "I've learned to speak and act as I must for the trust and responsibility placed upon me."

"Well, I've no want of that," said Mustadio.

"Your mind is still set then?" Half-statement, half-question.

The machinist nodded. "'Tis a flattering offer, truly, but I am for oil-soaked clothes and gunpowder. Not defending the Gods' words or fancy golden armor."

Did the Cardinal have some other idea to put forth then? "Well met, Mustadio. Though I'm sure we'll be along to Goug together anyway."

"Then let us share a drink before then. Drinks in Goug are unlike any other city in Ivalice. Even if I've been to only a handful of others."

"I look forward to it. As I'm sure the other machinists in Mullonde would have looked forward to meeting you."

"Then you've plenty of better qualified right where they need to be."

"And their tiresome squabble over that macick gun in our possession," Delita sighed. "'Twas some hope that the officer in charge would get it."

"You've a magick gun in working condition?" A fire reignited in Mustadio's eyes at the mention.

Was it really so simple?

"Aye," Delita added on a nod, "I've seen it in action myself. 'Twas quite a sight."

"What spells did it cast?"

"It struck of ice as if by blizzaga."

A flash of confusion touched upon Mustadio's face prior to his answer. "I… see. 'Twould be a sort of Glacier Gun then."

"The term fits, well enough."

Mustadio nodded. "Every so often I'd find gun frames in the Goug depths. They'd have emblems emblazoned on them in familiar designs. Ice, fire, lightning. Well before my time my father told me he'd laid eyes on similar, one that even functioned and fired spells with a pull of the trigger."

So easy even a child could use it.

"'Twas something of a dream to find one in working condition. But alas, even in all my years, my father's and all my fellow's that was but the only working model found. Talk sure, of others that did, but only that, talk."

"So rare are they?"

"In working condition aye. We've enough scraps to reforge them by the bulk, but whatever spark of magick was contained is long lost and we've no headway in recapturing it."

'Twas not quite on the level of auracite but Barich's gun seemed quite the treasure on its own. But that line of thought led to an idea. "You mentioned auracite did incite the activity of Goug works, correct?"

Mustadio nodded. "If you mean to imply auracite might be source of fuel for guns 'twas among my first thoughts whence my father brought the stone home." He shook his head. "Nothing."

"But if you had a working source, auracite and however many broken you have…"

"I see what you're doing here." Nevertheless, Mustadio smirked at the idea. "'Tis tempting, I admit. My father is the better weaponsmith."

"I'd presume you'd still work alongside him in any Goug duties."

"I… hrmmm…" Mustadio grumbled a bit. "I… suppose it would not hurt to listen. At the very least I would greatly desire to see the working gun with my own eyes."

"Splendid," Delita flashed a smile. "Whatever your decision lies on reaching Mullonde I'm glad to have your company on the way."

"I as well."

* * *

The Cardinal was quite pleased to see Mustadio going along with the offer and gave them quite the boon for their travel to Goug, and Mullonde. Every travel need fulfilled, with an escort and letters of introduction.

With one condition. Delita must hold the Taurus Stone. As a matter of ceremony, the Cardinal argued. 'Twas not so difficult to agree too, and Delita held the stone in his surcoat.

Delita, Mustadio, and the rest passed the time with light chatting and some talk about what being a Templar might mean for the machinist. The gunman kept reserved, but there was an excitement underlying his voice.

There were no difficulties in Goug. An inspection on Baert Trading Company's operations was that they were being constrained by Gryphon overseers until the depths of the company's corruption was exposed.

Doubtful that.

They set out on their ship, with goodbye said to their escort. Talk continued as it was.

No difficulties sailing and they docked with Mullonde to little fanfare save Mustadio's awe.

Delita afforded him some time to take in the sights before leading him towards the Templar barracks. Introductions and permissions abounded.

But something was amiss. Lord Tengille should have returned by now, yet there was a sense of unease lingering about the barracks.

When Delita knocked on the Grand Master's door he understood why.

"Enter," Alfredo's voice pierced the door and froze Delita for a blink.

Ramza's difficulties were extensive to require Lord Tengille to remain afield. And some other matter of great importance must require Loffrey's attention as well.

Their plans awry in manners he could not fathom.

Delita entered, with Mustadio following close behind. Alfredo did not look up from whatever document enthralled her attention.

"Templar Delita Heiral reporting, milday."

"Right."

"Templar Master Alfredo Remeres may I introduce to you Mustadio Bunansa of Goug."

"Hello, um, milady?"

That finally set her head up. "What's this about and be quick." She ignored Mustadio's presence. For now.

"I've a letter from His Eminence, Cardinal Delacroix in explanation."

"I said be quick, but hand it over."

Delita delivered the message, and with closer inspection saw how fatigued Alfredo suffered up close. The lose of her legs was miserable enough, and now she handled how many mountains of paperwork?

She tore the seal aside, not even bothering to check the integrity and glanced it over. "Wonderful," she groaned. "'Tis never an end to problems." She glared at Mustadio. "For you, we need the Grand Master and High Confessor both present to preside over your appointment, if you accept."

"I am unsure as of yet," Mustadio replied.

"Decide or don't I've no time for mouths that don't work."

"Some welcome…" Mustadio grimaced.

What was Alfredo doing pushing away an able-bodied helper like this? Were things even more dire than Delita presumed?

"As for you," she pointedly looked at him now, "your advancement to Officer can be handled by myself alone, thank the Gods."

Delita maintained his composure at the surprise. "What?"

Alfredo spared him a queer look before grumbling something underneath her breath. "His Eminence has put you up for promotion in light of your continued meritorious service to the Church of Glabados."

He'd hand in delivering two Zodiac Stones and put end to Lucavi. Yes, this made a good deal of sense.

"Well, congratulations to you," said Mustadio.

"One I'll gladly take, should it not delay my return to prior assignment."

"We'll have words of that in private," said Alfredo. "As for you Mustadio, take the offer now of leave. I've too much work to do to accommodate indecision at the moment."

"I think rather against the offer now."

"Hold." Delita wasn't about to let his earlier work go to waste like this. "Alfredo, if I may?" She gave him a nod to continue. "I would think it best if Mustadio bore witness to one of the goals he sought upon accepting this invitation."

"And that is?"

"I've heard you have a magick gun," the machinist intruded.

Alfredo looked between the two of them for a few moments. "That's it?" She reached beneath the desk and brought forth Barich's pistol. Recovered with the man's remains and in far better condition than its prior owner.

"May I see?" A quick nod gave him permissions and Mustadio grasped the handle of the gun. "Aye, I've seen this manufacture much in my workings. And it fires? Correctly?"

"It flew straight and true last I used," Alfredo replied. "Its spell enchant remains as well."

"Fascinating." Mustadio studied the piece with a craftsman's eye. "A shame there is but the one. Taking one apart would be the swiftest path to understanding why this one retains its capabilities when so many others do not."

"Do not make plans you do not intend to see out to fruition." Alfredo indicated the gun, and Mustadio handed it back.

"Mayhap I can trade the auracite for it?" A modicum of desperation winced on Mustadio's face.

"I'm not authorized to make such decisions."

"Nor… commission, me?" An unsure officer, that was.

"Well, you caught unto that at least." Alfredo looked the gun over herself. "I can't make you a Templar. I can't arm you this. But a bit of practice for an applicant? That I can oversee."

Letting him try the weapon was an enticing prospect and the desire came plain in the machinist's face. "Now that is something I can say I am fully behind."

Alfredo gifted him a rare smile. "Good, Herial and I have business to discuss. Take a left outside this room and you should find Templar Michaelson. Tell him Master Alfredo has authorized your use of the training field and will be along shortly."

Mustadio nodded. "I'll take my leave then." And he followed through shortly after.

A moment passed, long enough for Mustadio to be well out of hearing. "How poorly fairs the effort?" Delita asked.

"As well in hand, considering the difficulties." Alfredo leaned back in her chair. "Loffrey's gone to smooth relations with Dycedarg and determine the deficiencies in our scouting."

"Because Dycedarg trusts no one."

Alfredo stared at him, but slowly nodded.

"And Ramza?"

"We've word from the Grand Master that he and the escort target made it to Bervenia."

Without Delita to ensure passage through Besslat Ramza had to take quite a detour north. But he'd not risk the Free City of his own volition… Ramza's orders were to escort the princess to Lionel. A journey north was not absolute sign of guilt. "What impeded Ramza's progress?"

Alfredo gave no reply.

That worried him. Were they aware of his duplicity? Was this all a trap?

"Zalbaag Beoulve."

Ridiculous. He was supposed to be at Lesalia!

"I know not how or why he found them but he took the girl to Bervenia and left her in their care while he returned to Lesalia to rally trusted troops to escort her to Eagrose."

Damnation! Short of a Lucavi 'twas the worst scenario that involved him still breathing. "I must spur northwards at once then."

"No."

"Ramza will need my assistance."

"Steps have already been taken to safeguard his passage. We've a new task for you to undertake."

Damn this! Damn her! He was supposed to lead Her Highness! Take her to Goltanna and start this war! Ramza didn't have the heart for the bloody-minded business; they were putting it all in danger!

"We've located another auracite, it must be reclaimed."

"Plenty of those apt in transporting that." Delita checked himself from tossing the Taurus Stone on the desk and gently placed it down.

Alfredo shook her head. "The one we seek is the most treasured stone of all: Virgo. Saint Ajora's birthstone itself."

The one that would go straight to the High Confessor's grabbing hands. In any other circumstance gaining such favor would be an effortless decision.

"Isilud and Cletienne are more than capable enough to oversee that. And maybe Mustadio, should his impression remain favorable."

"Not for this." Alfredo held Taurus up, her eyes inspecting the stone closely. "You'll not transport the Stone back to Mullonde, but to Her Highness."

"So I am to be returned east."

Alfredo put the stone down. "We'd hoped to secret it away at war's start but must alter our plans accordingly. Virgo was statement that Ovelia was royalty, and must be returned to her hands."

A powerful symbol for the Black Lion to rally behind. "It is not with Her Highness?"

"Your escort came too swiftly it seemed," said Alfredo. "No, the Grand Master confirmed it himself. It must be buried deep within Orbonne."

To Orbonne again, was it? "My face was plain, as agreed upon."

"Talk has spread already."

"So by disguise we take the missing auracite?"

"By force. Leave none at Orbonne alive."

Delita blinked a few times as he understood the directive. Whom would believe the Church killed its own? When the slaughter came public both sides would blame the other with the Church secretly fanning the flames. A mysterious knight arriving with auracite would be accusation by White and accepted as hero by Black. "Understood. Who do I accompany?"

"Isilud and a contingent of Templars. You depart immediately."

Such wanton murder could be done with a handful of men. "Then I shall meet with him." Delita took the Taurus Stone back. "Be on your guard around Mustadio, he is shrewder than he looks."

Alfredo gave him a nod. With nothing else to discuss, the two left. Together, as Delita had to deliver the stone back to Mustadio first.

Already he was sizing up the arrow dummies on the field with a handful of other Templars (including a few other gunners) conversing with him.

"—these may work for arrows but a bullet is far more—" he noticed their arrival and cut short his sentence. Almost assuredly at the sight of Alfredo's wheeled chair.

"You were saying?" said Alfredo to keep the topic away from her.

"I was, I mean…" he stammered, regained his composure, and continued. "You can't use simple straw dummies as gun targets like you could arrows."

"Has worked without danger so far," one of the gunmen said.

"Yes, I once thought the same, but at practice myself I realized straw and wood could not stop an errant bullet the same way an arrow. I shattered a window on a glancing shot in way arrow could not."

"What do you suggest?" asked Alfredo.

"I've found a thick mound of dirt to work well, though," he glanced around the yard, "'twould be best built outside. With targets towards no buildings or any path a person might travel."

"Oceanside."

"Would work splendidly."

"Bluntly," said Mustadio, "whoever taught them did a poor job."

An odd utterance. Of the many flaws evident in Barich's mannerisms he took his guns seriously. But he had matters of greater import to handle. "My duties take me elsewhere, Mustadio," he said. "I hope you'll see the light of this offer, when I return."

The machinist nodded. "'Til we meet again."

The two men shook hands.

And with slight of hand Taurus was returned to its owner.

Delita waved them off as he left. The forefront of an argument slowly tailing him.

He met Isilud on the docks to the other Templars surprise. A quick explanation after and they boarded and set out.

To Orbonne, once more.

* * *

Dycedarg Beoulve waited.

The Church's emissary, Ser Loffrey Wording had arrived and awaited audience. Kept in anticipation with lies that the Beoulve elder was busy with other matters. Controlling the meeting, waiting. Principal maneuvers in meetings such as these.

Even as he was eager to investigate the derailment of the plan to assassinate the princess.

He'd no trust that the Church was a loyal ally. Simple bedfellows in convenience for this.

'Twas why he twisted his command, ever slight. He wanted the princess dead. The Church claimed to want her dead. Two youths spirited her away into an ambush at Ziekren Falls claiming she was target of assassination from the Northern Sky. Yet Gaffgarion and the ambush team were under orders solely to take her alive.

But a handful knew the intricacies of this ploy. By simple evidence 'twas clear the Church plotted against him.

As if Wiegraf Folles being in their employ didn't make it clear enough.

He needed to be subtle. Plum the depths of the Church's culpability and make a list of targets. He had far too much too lose to order a direct confrontation.

Then came the matter of Zalbaag returning with the princess to Eagrose.

Mayhap a way to strike twice in one move…

But enough time had passed. Dycedarg made call to bring the Templar Officer within.

Small, dark, personal. Only the barest accommodations. No fit for business of pleasure or public.

The man himself, still clad in his Templar tabard sat without perturb or mention of his wait. "Gods smile upon you, Dycedarg Beoulve." He took seat across the table across from him.

"'Tis always a pleasure, Ser Wodring. My apologies for the wait, but the terrible situation with Her Highness's abduction gives no quarter."

"Understandable. I thank you for granting me this audience."

"Now, for the matter at hand," said Dycedarg.

"The flaws in the escort of Her Highness."

'Twas almost refreshing to be straight to the point. "Zalbaag has sent me message that he shall return her to Eagrose himself. Whatever occurred out-of-sight has him suspicious. He rides with only House Beoulve bannermen to Bervenia."

"We shall keep her safe from the Black Lion."

 _Or take her to them._ "Your loyalty is welcome, in times such as these."

"Loyalty you well deserve."

Whilst they stab him in the back.

"So it is with full remorse that we announce our culpability in Her Highness's flight north."

Plain-faced was refreshing. This was suicidal. There had to be more to it then.

Dycedarg simply gave a look bid the other man continue, and he followed through. "We kept the details of our participation to a select few, as expected. But there lurked a spy within our midst who did report to Count Orlandeau."

Old Cid? Yes, the man managed his spycraft well. Far better than Lord Father. 'Twould not be outside chance that he did learn of this.

Which made him a brilliant scapegoat for the befouling of the assassination. Well done.

That made them all the more dangerous.

"When Her Highness arrives 'safely', we will publicly announce Count Orlandeau's involvement in her attempted kidnapping, and his undue suspicions against the Church."

Duke Goltanna would be forced to weigh the support of Cid, or the support of the Church and Marquis Elmdore. The Black Lion would be removed vital claws when the Duke stood firm in his resistance.

Such a deal would safeguard themselves from any unfortunate mishaps that might befall a Templar representative in Eagrose.

"May the traitors receive their due punishment." Alas, no wine glass to toast with.

"We will not impose any further on Her Highness's protection, lest unwanted eyes and ears remain." Leaving the dirty work in his hands again. "But there is one other matter of discussion I bring before you."

"And that is?"

"The location of Wiegraf Folles."

This conversation was certainly full of surprises. "I've no need of knowledge I am well aware of. He is buried deep in an unmarked grave with all his upstarts."

"Yet a man with his name, past and skills is now counted amongst our ranks."

Dycedarg gave pause at such admittance. His judgement earlier mistaken in haste. "I admit, I'd not expected such bold duplicity."

"No more than any man in this room."

"You forget your place, Templar." Dycedarg scowled.

Loffrey bowed in his chair. "My apologies, Lord Beoulve. An unfortunate slip of the tongue."

"If this man is whom you claim, why then do you not gift his head?"

"We shall, and are. He comes to Bervenia. An unfortunate arrival at the same time as a certain Knight Devout."

"Much a roundabout method to deliver him to us."

"The Knights Templar do not intercede publicly in the domain of common criminals. Save for matters of self-defense. And Wiegraf Folles is _very_ public."

"Of course." Let Zalbaag claim the glory of this. "You mean to paint him as the spy within your ranks."

"He came to us. How unaware we were of his infamy."

It could work. Vengeance could push the man to side with Black against White. But there were too many moving parts. Too complex a maneuver would break easily. So many tactics in the war fell aside due to commons' idiocy.

"Very well." He'd let them have their way for now. These prizes were too tempting to ignore. "It is gratifying to know the fullest extent of your devotion to the proper authorities. My brother's faith is quite well placed."

"You do us much honor, Your Lordship. I shall remain on liason here in Eagrose 'til our situation clears. If I may partake of your hospitality for a time?" Dycedarg gave permission with a slight nod. "Thank you, Your Lordship. I shall take my leave. Gods be with you."

"And you as well, Ser Wodring."

The Templar departed. Leaving Dycedarg not alone.

Goffard Gaffgarion stepped out of a shadowed alcove. His hand rested still on the blood sword at his side. "I'm not one for faith in the Gods but that man seems even less holy than I."

"He is a man before he is a servant of the Gods. And all men crave power, no matter how much they deny it."

"I rather settle for living."

"You're more than apt at that it seems."

"Would you prefer I rest at the bottom of that miserably cold river?" said Gaffgarion.

"I'd prefer she did," Dycedarg said.

Gaffgarion chuckled at the statement. "So do we all. Shall I be off to be sure of it?"

There was no certainty after such failure. "No. We haven't the time. I've another matter of importance for you to handle."

"I am your ever-loyal man."

Hardly. Gil was his master.

But Dycedarg had plenty of gil.

"Make for Orbonne Monastery."

"Mayhap give that order a half-month prior."

Dycedarg shook his head. Maneuvering the manpower at his disposal required certain shifts. It had proven apt in casting doubt on the Church's loyalties. But it left an unclear picture of the situation at the Monastery itself. "Go, ascertain the particularities of the kidnappers."

"Besides that they fight like cornered rats."

Loyal knights, but hardly the Order's most skilled. "As well as another matter."

"Oh?" Gaffgarion's interest piqued.

"The Elder of the building, Simon, as I recall, once tutored my sister, Alma." He spared a brief moment of worry for her alone in Lesalia, but pushed it aside. He had business to attend. "I ordered investigations, as I did with all her teachers."

"No finer brother a girl could ask for, I'd say."

"'Twas quite a surprise to learn he was an Inquisitor, in his youth." Even Dycedarg would tread careful around the Holy Office. "Now retired, but years of service in secrets and lies does not hide easy. Wring from his neck whatever dark truths the Church hides in its vaults." The man was in an opportune spot to help manipulate the events.

"And shall I burn the building down after?" he asked with a wry smirk.

"If you must," Dycedarg relented. "Take that squire of yours with you."

"Ladd? Well, best he learn the ways of the world now, then. By that I mean to take it we've but ourselves to rely on for this?"

"An old man and a few priests give the Eastern Sky pause? Surprising."

"I've no fright of them, but the allies mayhap in waiting."

"You would think this a trap?"

The fel knight nodded. "To not overstep my bounds, but they've had a plan to your liking in every scenario."

"That they have." A fair point raised and one he'd already considered. "Take the girl with you."

Gaffgarion gave a long pause as he contemplated the order. "I know you're not one for japes; so, in all seriousness: Why?"

"She knows not what we want, so best make use of her as is. She'll not harbor thoughts of treason whilst her father's life is held in our palms. Put her to work as your van and lure out any difficulties. If you do not return within two week's time other arrangements shall be made."

"I've my fill of defeat; I'll crave victory this time. To Orbonne then."

* * *

Alma Beoulve paced about her lavish quarters in the akademy's dormitories in a fit of frustration.

Zalbaag returned and left without even sparing a word for Alma. She was used to her Lord Brothers thinking her too delicate, or too ignorant, to deserve information. But whatever matter Zalbaag left on was severe.

A miasma of unease stirred within her stomach. She convinced Zalbaag to go to Orbonne to soothe her worries not add to them. Had he found Ramza? Had her plan paid off? Or was there something dangerous to Ovelia?

He recalled many of House Beoulve's bannermen to him.

Including the ones who best knew how to keep watch on her.

She'd be disobeying the wishes of both her lord brothers. She'd receive such a scolding, or worse.

Well, she'd just have to scold them first for treating her like a burden! She'd find out the truth on her own.

Hopefully everyone at Orbonne would be safe.

Hopefully.

It was a reckless, foolish thing to leave the city behind on her own. She only had half-hearted lessons on what to expect. She could ride. She could do this.

No, no she couldn't. What if there were bandits? Or snowstorms? What if she didn't pack enough food, or if she chocobo fell victim to some horror!?

She wouldn't know what to do.

But she did know people who could.

She hurried out of the dorms (much unlike a lady) and headed over to the Order Offices. Even with Lord Brother taking most of the House bannermen, there were still knights familiar with her. No one barred her path, even if they knew her intents they surely would.

She searched for two familiar faces among the stationed knights old and new. Finally, she found them.

"Oh, Lady Alma, what are you doing here?" asked Gillian, standing up from her seat in the study.

"Good day, Gillian, Malin," Alma replied. "How fare you today?"

"Fair, milady," Malin said, retaining her seat but leaning forward. "And you?"

Alma put on her practiced face. Surface fair but hint of worry beneath. A smile melancholy. "I am well enough, thank you."

"What brings you to us this day, if you do not mind me asking?"

"I've heard my Lord Brother returned, yet, he left without further word to me."

The two knights exchanged a glance. "Yes, milady," said Gillian.

"It worries me," Alma admitted. "Please, if you know whence he went, would you tell me? I…" she looked away. "I do not wish to worry for two brothers..." _Oh Ramza where are you…?_

From the corner of her eye she spied the two shifting awkwardly.

"It is Order business," Gillian slowly said. "Not for all to know. Even us."

What occurred that demanded such secrecy? "That concerns me all the more. As I walked these halls more faces fell unfamiliar than not."

"Yes, Lord Zalbaag needed those he trusted…" said Malin.

"And you're the ones he trusted most," Alma pointed out.

"I… don't think that's quite true, milady."

"It is. Who else but his most trusted knights would remain at his sister's side?"

Her words gave them pause to consider. The trap set. Would they accept the praise and responsibility or break her the difficult news that Zalbaag did not think so highly of them, and her.

"Mayhap yes, then," said Gillian. "So what can we loyal knights do to ease your mind, Lady Alma?"

"Could you?" she feigned desperate surprise. "No, no, 'tis too much to ask. I have no desire to impose any further."

"Trust us as your Lord Brother has."

Excellent. Alma gifted them a small smile. ""It is much to ask, but I worry for my Lord Brother's safety without the pair of you along."

"Lord Zalbaag is a peerless swordsman with a host of loyal knights at his back. Rest assured, Lady Alma, even without our swordarms he shall be well."

"I know, I know," her voice dropped at the repeat, "but it is a little sister's right to worry."

"Come now, milady, what can we do to keep your spirits up?"

Knights were always so gallant. "I know it is much—too much to ask—but would you, could you consider… no…" she shook her head, "I should not even speak it. I will not burden you with this."

"You wish us to ride after Lord Zalbaag, if I understand?" asked Malin.

Alma did not answer with words. But a slight shift of her body. A slight dipping of her head and eyes that did not meet.

"You have a noble heart Lady Alma, but we have our station here."

"I am aware. But where Lord Brother has gone fills my heart with such unease. 'Tis terrible to bear."

"Yes… milady…" answered Gillian.

They were not aware he'd gone to Orbonne then. Good. "I should have tried harder to convince him."

"What do you mean?"

Alma bit her lip and made it obvious. "I spoke with Zalbaag before he left for the first time. I could have stopped him, but he left by himself. Now he needs knights? Oh, what happened at Orbonne?"

"Orbonne."

Alma made face like she'd been slapped. "Oh, no, please, you misheard me." She cupped her mouth. "I misspoke, for true."

The two knights looked at one another, and nodded. They understood the weight of the words Alma "let" slip. Ovelia's transfer to Eagrose was an open secret in the Order's ranks. If Zalbaag rode with his most loyal knights, something disastrous had happened.

"We will not speak of this with any other, Lady Alma," said Gillian.

"You've our word and more," said Malin.

"Thank you, both of you. Your presence is one ease on my mind," she graciously accepted their vow with a curtsy. "It is almost a worry that your capable hands do not ride with my Lord Brother."

Malin said, "They're here if you need them."

"If there was but a way to accomplish both…" she wistfully whispered. Just loud enough for them to overhear. And question.

"Lady Alma, we will not escort you to Lord Zalbaag," said Gillian, catching on.

"Perish the thought!" she feigned ignorance. "I could not hardly think myself of getting in Lord Brother's way. But, it does make a deal of sense, does it not? You could ride to Lord Brother's side while keeping guard over me."

The two knights fought back their annoyance at her ploy. "Lady Alma," Malin said, standing up and aside Gillian, "I… understand, your frustrations, but it would do no good for you to place yourself in dangers such as that simply because you are concerned for your family."

"I… oh, very well," she said sullen and lied. "I will not bother you further." With little decorum she left the two knights.

'Til night.

She fled he dormitory to the Order stables. 'Twas not hard to sneak inside.

For the two knights inside had let her.

"Gillian, Malin, what are you doing here?" she asked the question she well knew the answer too.

"Lady Alma," said Gillian, adorned fully in armor now, "riding by yourself in the middle of the night is reckless and dangerous. You could be hurt, or worse."

"I am a fair rider, if it were such my intent," she crossed her arms, "which it was _not_."

Hidden away as they were Malin let out a large sigh. "Don't demean yourself with lies, Lady Alma. Why else would you be here?"

"And what of my Lord Brother!?" Alma's voice rose. "He rides with no white mages. No chemists. If someone is hurt, or gets hurt, he'll need a cleric with him." Zalbaag was better skilled in white magicks than she, but the other knights didn't.

"There are plenty of ways to tend to injury."

"But no one he could trust."

They went silent. There was no way to reply quite to that.

"There would be no stopping me were I but a man." Knightdom was not the path for a Lady Beoulve. So many dame knights and she not among them.

'Twas an awkward thing to mention, even for the two knights.

"Mayhap, we could," Gillian, relented.

"Gillian." Malin shot her a stern look.

"For true!?" Alma clasped her hands.

"If, and only if, you agree to listen to us."

"I will, I promise!"

Seeing she was incapable of resisting, Malin sighed. "If there is but even the slightest chance of danger upon your person we shall retreat at once."

"Yes, yes, I understand. Please, let us hurry!"

The two continued to lecture on the finer points of their arrangement as they readied the chocobos and left Lesalia.

To Orbonne!

* * *

 **AN: I've been busy. I'm basiclly rushjobbing this chapter to say that I've been busy. I'll get around to more in-depth replies to Reviews later.**


	59. Chapter 58: Things to Come

**Chapter 58: Things to Come**

Ovelia, Ramza and Agrias met with Alicia, Annabelle and Lavian without further difficulty. A welcome relief to the princess. But their faces, their clothes, so haggard, so tired. They'd but a near empty sack of supplies left and a single sword. But all their words were support, kindness and thoughts of her. She'd frightened and pushed them so, and yet they gladly did it. For a girl who may not even be a princess.

Ovelia clutched at her heart. She did not have it to say. To put their oaths in jeopardy after all they'd suffered in her account. And yet, she had to.

She prayed to the Gods. Let her be brave, just this once.

"I have a matter of grave importance to announce," she said, her voice wavering in the cold.

The Lionsguard did not flinch. She had to repay their steadfast beliefs.

"There is much to say," she slowly said. "Some of which is obvious; others, less so." She did hope this didn't seem ridiculous. She looked at Agrias, Lavian, Alicia, Annabelle.

Finally she looked at Ramza. His face no longer obscured by helmet constantly. Some worry of his own, pained his face. She wanted to ask it. If there was anything she could do.

But this, this was more pressing.

"What Ramza has told—of the Church's involvement in my kidnapping, has said true."

Grim nods of acknowledgement, begrudging, especially from Annabelle. But they'd all realized the obvious when they returned.

"I heard it from the very mouth of the Grand Master of the Templar's myself. They wanted me sent to the Black Lion, to incite a war between the Dukes."

She paused to let the truth soak in deep on their minds.

"But why?" asked Annabelle. "What does the Church gain from war?"

"He spoke of themselves as champions to 'commons'." How that term haunted her so.

"They mean a revolution," spoke Ramza. "An end to nobles who war for the sack of power. Galvanize the populace against Larg and Goltanna after they make their grabs for the throne, after they've exhausted their knights in fruitless stalemates."

"Why would he reveal this?" asked Lavian. "Is he that brazen?"

"He believes himself righteous, that this show of goods is enough to sway opinion," said Ramza. "But, who else would believe the House of the Gods had fallen so low?"

All of them believed in the sanctity of the institution. Argued for its staunch neutrality during their tenuous alliance. What now could they do?

"What options remain for us?" Alicia moved the conversation back on track.

If Ovelia allowed it… she could ignore what else was said within that room. Forget it all…

She couldn't. Not now, not ever.

"Wait," Ovelia pleaded, "there is more to say." The others went silent for their princess's words. She spoke—no, she didn't. The words caught in her throat, choking on the truth. The would-be truth. An accusation she could not repeat. The cold, so different from the room's heat yet painful the same.

She looked at Ramza.

She had to.

"He, the Grand Master, said more," her voice broke on each word, "words I could not believe, should not believe and yet…" She closed her eyes. Flashes of the man speeding across her mind. His words repeating themselves, burned forever into her ears. "He said I was not Ovelia."

Agrias move and spoke to reassure her.

Annabelle shouted it lies.

Lavian berated the man.

Alicia stood almost dumbfounded.

It was a chorus of support. Yet, she continued. "He claimed I was a commons' girl; that I was but a nobody placed in a crib of the true Ovelia who passed."

"Do not believe such audacious slander, Your Highness," Agrias's voice cut through the rest. "You are yourself."

"Am I!?" she pleaded. "I have no memories of my Lord Father, my Lady Mother. I was sequestered away, always with the word "Princess" hung around my head." And she hung her head.

"This information is full of false, Your Highness," said Lavian. "How would the Church even be aware of this?"

"They've eyes and men everywhere," Ramza interceded. "Know much of what they should not. They aided in this dark business; 'twould not be a surprise they've moved shadowed hands for many years."

"You!" Annabelle shouted at him. "'Tis your fault! All of this!"

"Please, save my beration for latter, this is for Her Highness."

"Annabelle, please…" said Ovelia.

"No—I, yes, Your Highness…" the Lionsguard bowed back, sullen.

"The Grand Master said that the noble Council was behind my circumstances. All to removed Queen Luveria from power, they poisoned the first two princes and put me forth as a substitute for the real Ovelia."

Her words hung in the air. Intrigue and assassinations and plays for power. Men had died for her, blood royal or no.

"Your Highness," said Agrias. "There would be a flaw with that story."

"That is?"

"Queen Luveria was simply not Queen whilst you were young enough to be in a crib. She was a girl younger than you are now, at such a time."

"He may have been simply exaggerating." His did speak of such extremes.

"The circumstances he claimed would have been a reaction to a girl who could not set policies she has grown infamous for. Even after the crown did sit on her head, 'twould be well into times you can remember for true."

She did recall the news that her half-brother was ordained King… "He mentioned the departed elder princes. The malady that beset them was poison given by the Council."

"Are there none virtuous outside our circle?" Alicia grimaced. "But, that would seal this certainty. The elder princes only passed a few years prior."

"I was Princess, when I heard that news…" Their council had proven true and just. She breathed relief. Even with Ramza's support she'd dreaded this so. She had underestimated her Lionsguard. "Thank you, thank you all."

They swelled with pride and acceptance.

"I… I would be remiss not to put this to mention," spoked Lavian. "But there remains a possibility to consider."

 _No… please no more..._

"That is?" said Agrias.

"Until King Onodera III confirmed Her Highness's adoption as his heir, I had not heard even a rumor that there was a 'Princess Ovelia'."

"I was always raised as a princess, even before I heard the news of my adoption."

Alicia replied, "'Tis not out of bounds for a noble lady to be sequestered from all public eye 'til her debut." She looked at each of her other knights.

"But so completely?"

"'Twas because I was half-sister," said Ovelia. "The elder did his best to keep it from me, but Ivalice could not afford such a scandal of Lord Father's affair." 'Twas a topic she detested, but knew well.

"Very well, Your Highness," Lavian relented.

"Have you heard of the Beoulve's youngest?" said Ramza.

Ovelia turned towards him. Was he to announce it now!?

"Lady Alma and some boy," Agrias answered.

"You have, heard of them…" Ramza's words matched the grim expression on his face. "Half-noble bastards that damaged Lord Barbaneth's reputation. Yet you have heard of them."

They'd come so far, so why had he torn it sunder yet again? "Some circumstances are different…" said Ovelia.

"I know, yet, I would be remiss not to bring it forth. Among many things…"

She saw Lavian looking at Ramza as well. "Then I would be remiss not to continue," said the Lionsguard. "You were kept hidden, a princess in reserve until the Council was sure the King not to sire another son, then brought forth as the next heir."

"So many years of planning, when even the War was in our favor…" Agrias bemoaned. "'Tis madness…"

"These circumstances are madness," said Ramza.

"What is the truth…" asked Ovelia. "Who am I? Truly?"

Ramza replied first before the others, "Someone I care for and that has not changed." The Lionsguard glared him silent.

She wished that were enough. A month ago mayhap but with everything… "What do we do now?" She'd no desire to parlay with either Lion. Or dance for the Church's amusement. What left did she have?

Agrias looked around their small group. "Let us put our options to the fore," she said. "We may continue on and seek refuge with the Black Lion." She faced Ramza. "Unless there's some new information otherwise?"

"What we've said," said Ovelia. "Why would they harbor a girl who may not even be a princess?"

"They've no proof otherwise that Your Highness is anyone other than yourself."

 _Proof?_ "Proof…" _The auracite!_ "When I was given to the care of Elder Simon at Orbonne, the Virgo auracite was handed to him as proof of my lineage." It was a royal treasure. One beyond the reach of anything but Royal hands. Or so she thought. "The Grand Master knew about Virgo."

"Then he'd move to take it," said Ramza. "Offer it to whichever side as their royal right and…" Ramza paused, some new thought busying him. "No, support _his_ side. I see now, the Zodiac Braves."

"From the legends of Saint Ajora?" questioned Agrias. "How does such a fanciful tale have purchase?"

"The people tire of war. Fifty Years, Corpse Brigade and a War of the Lions? Have those who stand in the Church's way exhaust themselves in war and draw the ire of the populace. When the war reaches its fevered peek offer salvation for those crushed under heel. And heroes to rally around. They mean to use the legend of the Braves to lead Ivalice to a new era. One the commons beg for. One ruled by the Church."

Ovelia shook her head. "Do we have any road not fraught with danger?"

"Flee," Ramza offered. "Beyond the bounds of Ivalice."

But Alma… "I cannot ask that of you, of anyone here."

"We may inform Duke Goltanna of the Church's acts," said Annabelle.

Lavian shook her head. "He'd not act against their support. He'd face peasant uprisings if he dared impugn them. Marquis Elmdore could sever ties, a dozen other lesser, but still influential houses. No, he would not risk it. Even had we hard evidence of their plotting."

"And he thought the Marquis would be welcoming," Annabelle spat. "So why, why do you think he would welcome us with open arms? Simply because you are—were a Templar?"

"Annabelle—"

"Your Highness, please!" she earnestly pleaded. "We don't know anything about him. This could all still be a continued trick! An assassin 'round your neck, ready to strike because he's earned your trust by some trick."

"I am curious as well," Agrias added on, and the other two nodded their support. "Your words have rung true, Ser Ramza, so I ask you now in confidence why you are so resolved the Marquis would meet with you."

Ramza did not answer, instead his gaze fell solely on her. "Your Highness, I have told you my name, my reasons, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you believe me true?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," relief flooded his face, "on your word and yours alone will I answer for this."

Her entirely useless word. No… everyone was putting their hopes on her… at the very least, fulfilling what little she could… "Ramza, please, answer."

He acknowledged with a nod and faced those hungry for answers. "The Marquis would see me because he owes a great debt. One a man as honorable as he would see fulfilled. But a year ago his life was held hostage, and 'twas I and my fellows that fought him free."

"A year…?" said Agrias. "'Twould be when he was abducted by the Corpse Brigade, if I recall."

"'Twas."

"He was…" Recognition shook her face. "By the Gods…"

"My name is Ramza Beoulve."

A cascade of surprise and silence as Lionsguard contemplated the truth.

Beoulve her friend, Beoulve her savior, Beoulve her pursuer and Beoulve her assassin.

"I would not stand idly by as mine Lord Brother Dycedarg sought Her Highness's life. With my friend at my side we came to Her Highness to save, and speak of Ivalice free of men corrupt as Larg, the Church and worse."

"You would have us believe you'd choose Her Highness over your own blood?" Annabelle asked.

"I _have_." Ramza's hands tighten around the reins. "Blood matters naught to Dycedarg when there is power to be held."

"Hold, Annabelle," Agrias bid her stop. "Ramza, what sparked you into this rebellion against your lord brothers?"

"Is being the right thing to do so outside a common thought?"

"When Zalbaag confronted us, I understand now your change in voice, but 'twas but unknowns what 'Herial's revenge' meant, 'til now. Speak."

"Her Highness is far from the first victim of my lord brothers' actions." It pained him to say.

"I understand." Agrias gave a slow, understanding nod. "You have Her Highness's trust and mine as well. Lionsguard?"

"Aye," Alicia said.

"Aye," said Lavian.

Annabelle, always so obstinate did not add. "Nay."

"There is naught I can do to assuage your doubts," said Ramza. "Good. If I would threaten Her Highness strike me down. I, as I am now, would sooner die than falter in this resolve."

"I will."

As well as could be. "But, still," said Ovelia, "what do we do now?"

Ramza said, "I've but a handful of friends, scattered across Ivalice. We'd double our numbers but little else."

"Mayhap we retrieve Virgo?" Lavian offered. "A symbol for us and keep it from the Church's clutches?"

"Zalbaag should be in our pursuit, once more, but he'd surely not think we'd double back south."

"Not to Orbonne then," said Ovelia. "I've no wish to see Elder Simon in danger, either."

"Our families have little in the way to support," said Agrias. "Mayhap why we were chosen as your guard, Your Highness. Little in the way of difficulties should we perish."

Ovelia recalled the difficulties by which Agrias pursued her own path of the sword. Over her lord parents' objections. Much the same for the others.

"What of the Thunder God?" said Alicia.

"Count Orlandeau?" Agrias replied. "His reputation breaches Ivalice's borders, but he'd take side with Duke Goltanna firstly."

"My Lord Father spoke of Count Orlandeau as his truest friend," said Ramza. "But I've no familiarity with the man, personally. And we've seen how well talk and rumor lie."

"What of Zalbaag? Could you convince him of this?"

The question took Ramza aback. "Unlikely. Nothing short of Saint Ajora confessing to him the wayward plans of the Church would convince him otherwise." Something sparked remembrance in Ramza's features. "He also bore auracite himself. No heirloom of Beoulve history, he was handed it by the Templarate."

The world was their enemy. "We've no choice, but to meet with Duke Goltanna." He was the closest thing to support they had.

"Yes, Your Highness." None doubted her command.

May this not be the wrong decision.

* * *

They settled camp as far into Zeltennia's borders they could before twilight. Zalbaag was doubtless pursuing them, but none were certain if he would dare cross into Duke Goltanna's lands.

It was the first full meals for the Lionsguard in too long.

They divided the watch quickly and effectively.

Ramza had first.

Nothing but his own thoughts to company their time in dark. Worries, fears…

Somehow, it all went away when he remembered his purpose.

Funny thing.

And welcome.

Save one for gnawing realization. One he had to discuss. One he was too afraid to confront.

Time passed in thoughts growing clearer as the fogged night. 'Twas almost time to change for Agrias.

A shuffle came behind and he twisted—"Your Highness?"

"Please, Ovelia," she said and settled in behind him.

"You need rest."

"I am still unaccustomed to these harsh grounds."

Ramza nodded. Even bedrolls provided could only do so much. "Is there anything on your mind?" he asked.

"Many things," she said. "About the future, and my place in it."

"Such as?"

"It becomes clear now, why I learned so little of ruling. The Church did not want it. Whatever my parentage they did not want anything but a straw doll."

"You have already grown beyond the confines they set for you."

"Have I?" she earnestly asked. "Even if I do not follow their strings I still have little to offer."

"What you have done has been enough to save my life," he repeated.

Her expression brightened a bit at his response. "Mayhap there is more I can do, to assist?"

All those months training Templars was leading to this, wasn't it? "What I can, I will." He offered his hand once more and her familiar warmth returned. "Swords, and spears and shields, mayhap not. 'Twould take months to properly prepare yourself." Though something small for self-defense? "You've that spell, correct?"

"Aegis. Elder Simon taught me, as he did Alma." The preparation work for magicks was even more difficult than for physical arts. But she'd a base understanding to cast such a powerful magick.

"Should the need require it. I am not fully familiar with the additional skillsets employed by Lionsguard. With only myself for magickal support. Another hand, would be welcome indeed."

"When may we start?" Something she could do. Something to keep her mind occupied.

"A latter time. I am simply too fatigued and that would make for poor lessons." He shuddered at remembering Alfredo's lessons. "Even a day, might be poor. Exhausting ourselves when chance remains of true combat would be dangerous."

"Oh.." disappointment rose high in her voice.

It sounded like excuses, and in a manner, it was. "Well, practical examples would be out of hand. But learning, yet not applying them, could be in order." He rather wished for some class texts at the moment. "We can manage that at least."

"Thank you."

But… this was an excellent time to speak of that… other… problem. "There is one more thing," he said with a slight grimace. "When I spoke with the Grand Master in private."

"Is this something the others should hear?"

"No, this concerns only us," he said. "I would be remiss not to mention it, but I will be honest, it is what I should do, to repay your trust."

"Is it so dire?"

"'Tis not quite the right word for it. To the point of it, the Grand Master accused my good intentions to be aimed at securing the throne for myself." A quick gasp of shock was the reply. "I swear it to the Gods such was never my intent. 'Til he brought the matter to hand such a thought never crossed my mind."

"I…" She withdrew her hand. Pulled away. Would not even look at him.

This climaxed as the wrong choice. He had been wrong. Yet to hide this? He'd sworn her the truth, regardless of its difficulty.

"Would… would that be so wrong…?" she cringed as she spoke.

"No!" he shouted, but checked his embarrassing mistake. "I mean… oh, I don't know. This is all rather new to me." Oh, what a clod he was being.

"Do you think I am learned in this?" she snapped around, her face reddened. "Or that this causes me no unease?"

"I… I don't know what to think, so please, Ovelia, please: What are we?"

"I've no answers either."

Swords and spells seemed so simple compared to speaking. "What I feel warms me unlike anything I've experienced. My life was a mire of uncertainty 'til I met you. Whatever we are—whatever this is, I feel it is good."

"You are a weight off my shoulders. But, truly, would you? Would you take my hand in marriage? The throne and Ivalice as yours?"

"I… Gods I do not know. Something so momentous should not be decided by the accusation of a man who would be our enemy." Ramza shook his head. "It is the way of the nobility to bethroe for power, and alliances. I have none to offer and my Lord Brothers would have simply given me to a fine lass. I made my peace with such… but now, now I remember my Lord Father. How he defied conventions, no matter the scorn it earned him. I can't tell yet, what this is, but I have never felt this way about someone else before. I cannot answer you." He contorted with a sharp pain at the dreadful news.

Ovelia laughed and all Ramza could do was stare blankly in confusion.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said as she got her fit under control, "I could just not bear it."

"I fail to see the jape in my words. Though, it is good to hear you laugh for the first time." That he could recall, in any case.

"It is just, all my life as been one worry to the next. Who would use my title? What was I to do? Who would be my husband? And so recently keeping eye over soldier for some assassin's knife. Always thoughts as dark as night without a sliver of light. Just a faint glimmer, like moonlight." She took his hand once more. "How many would turn down the hand of a princess? How many would lie 'no' when all they wanted is yes?"

This conversation was overflowing with questions neither had answers to. "I rather like our hands where they are."

"As do I."

They spent time away from matters of such large importance. They spoke of little things, of relaxation, joys, light-hearted times of the past.

The future looked a shade brighter, after.

They could not speak forever, and time came close to the switch of the watch.

"Good night, Ovelia."

"Good night, Ramza."

She settled back down in her seclusion while Ramza moved to wake Agrias. The Lionsguard Captain rose with remarkable alacrity.

"Any difficulties?" she asked.

"None."

She nodded and replaced her arms whilst Ramza removed his own.

"Ser Ramza, I owe you an apology for my earlier accusations."

"Nay, you acted as best you could with the information you possessed. I find there nothing that needs apology." 'Twas not so long ago that he acted similar, after all.

A moment passed with only the noise of encumbrance spread. "You seem unlikely to relent, so I shall not insist. But," she glared at him with a cold fury, "know that Annabelle's blade will not be the only one against you should you turn against Her Highness."

Such loyalty was inspiring in light of what he'd seen. Mayhap petitioning for the Lionsguard had been the path he sought, all along. "Then I repeat as well: If I should become such a villain I would gladly make such a sacrifice." Though he accepted death a touch too freely, he realized.

"Rest well, Ramza."

He gave a nod and headed to sleep.

* * *

Agrias's watch was an uneventful few hours. When time expired she moved to wake Alicia.

The Lionsguard switched their positioning and equipment.

"Captain, may I speak, a moment?"

"Go ahead, Alicia."

"Do you think it is wise to bring Her Highness to Duke Goltanna?"

Agrias waited a moment to consider her responses. "Not wise. But it would be our only option." Even bringing this matter to Lionsguard High Command would accomplish little.

"Even if she's used for war?"

"I've no desire to see Ivalice at war." Yet… "The blame for this lies upon those who would use Her Highness for their own gain."

"Are we not doing the same?"

"We are abiding to Her Highness's wishes."

Frustration played out on Alicia's face as she did not respond immediately. Perhaps there was more to be said. "I see, thank you, Captain," said Alicia.

"Alicia, if you would return to Lesalia for your family's sake, go with my blessing."

"Am I so obvious?"

"I would not think they dare hold our families hostage. But so much has gone awry, that mayhap your worries prove true."

"Thank you, Captain." She glanced at Her Highness. "But our Houses have loyal soldiers. Her Highness only has us."

"Watch well, Alicia."

"Rest well, Captain."

* * *

Alicia's watch went as silent as the priors. Nothing to be done but mull in her own thoughts 'til time was to wake Lavian.

Lionsguard exchanged their arrangements.

"Lavian, I must have a word with you."

"Yes?"

"What is your opinion on our situation?"

"The pursuit, the Church, us, or the Black Lion?" asked Lavian.

So many things to take time in mind… "The latter, most of all."

"Duke Goltanna and his cohorts will seek to use Her Highness. We need him, more than he needs us, specifically. 'Twould not be out of hand for us to be removed as Her Highness's guardians."

"That would simply lead her to distrust the Duke," said Alicia.

"Aye, but he means to use her, not seek her cooperation or consent."

 _As did everyone._ "We should make better preparations then."

"I'll present a proposal to the Captain later."

"That is a weight off my mind." Lavian was always so practical.

"Is there anything more?" Lavian inquired.

 _Much._ "No. Keep your eyes sharp, Lavian."

"Take what rest you can, Alicia."

* * *

Lavian spared much of her watch time on considering how to frame their introduction to Duke Goltanna. They had little to offer, but coming in weak and desperate would be foolish. The framework she'd done during the wait needed to be altered in light of the new information. Beoulve, and Church and uprisings.

Well, this was just a strong case to the difficulties of high office.

She'd a solid base when finally it came to switch with Annabelle. They quickly did so.

"This would be the time to leave without him," said Annabelle.

"I realize he bargained your life to kidnap Her Highness, but the situation has clarified itself, Annabelle."

"It was not your life he treated like some spare gil, Lavian. If he could do that, he could do much the same with Her Highness."

"That is not without merit, but he has also done much for her sake."

"So have we, without any dips in loyalty, or anything so grim."

It was always a good idea to have a balancing opinion in an matter. Precisely why Lavian argued for Duke Goltanna prior to crossing the river. "Then we have an able watchwomen should he attempt anything."

"Yet I am stymied at every turn."

There wasn't much she could offer in reply save platitudes or irrelevant stories. "Aye." This was not her forte.

The two could not exchange pleasantries before moving to their new tasks. Lavian took to sleep with a mind run strong in planning forward.

* * *

Morning came. Despite Annabelle's reservations she tried nothing sordid during the night. She was a knight.

With morning meal consumed, their small group mounted and left eastwards.

* * *

 **AN: Hardly the same as last year's pace but a substantial improvement over otherwise.**

 **Thanks for that review.**


	60. Chapter 59: Embittered Reunions

**Chapter 59: Embittered Reunions**

The Princess and her knights continued east. Always east. Food was the only time they stopped to rest, at locations Alicia scouted. They met no others, saw no other signs of travelers.

Worrying in a different way.

Another day and night passed.

A midday meal after, a light snow began to fall.

Cover, for when they were attacked.

Trees on their left, a ways away. A small creek to their left and a ridge to the north. Arrows struck from the trees and struck into Alicia's leading chocobo.

"Shields to the cover!" Agrias shouted and the knights formed their wall to Her Highness.

Only three arrows came at a time. This was no ambush of knights. What rotted luck to find brigands.

Arrows stuck out from half the chocobo's flanks before they managed to rally. "Forward," ordered Agrias. Shields ready and raised they kicked their mounts forward and hopefully through this ambush.

Figures in the treeline shook around, too far and brush too thick to count. Arrows came but none found their marks in the next barrage. The banditry emerged from their coverage but they could not reach fleeing chocobo on foot.

Thunder struck and lightning followed. Alicia at the head was alone struck by a thickened bolt of lightning. Her chocobo faltered and fell, with her following.

She moved.

Relief and worry.

The unmounted Lionsguard struggled, but her leg was trapped under the fallen bird.

This was too much a coincidence to be common brigands. This was a planned work. And only the Church would know their destination.

Yet, their paths had not been chosen in advance. The Church could not have known about this.

But whatever damnable reason, they needed to fight.

"To a distance milady," Agrias ordered. "Form around Alicia." Their troops scattered and centered.

"I to her," Ramza said and slipped from his saddle.

The fastest runners made it to the Lionsguard. On foot against a mounted foeman was dangerous enough. Against Lionsguard, 'twas tantamount to suicide. The Princess's guard cleaved through the low-make armor and sent half their attackers to death and the other half running with wounds.

But thrice more appeared from woods.

Lightning fell upon the mounted Lionsguard. They bore it bravely but the chocobos let out deranged "kwehs" at the pain. These were not war chocobos. They could not endure this assault.

Ramza shoved aside the fallen mount and Alicia pulled herself free.

An enemy slipped past the perimeter. His blade, well-used but cared for, swung at them. Alicia with her own blade blocked the swing and Ramza stabbed through his abdomen.

The man almost laughed and swung his sword about wildly, nearly glancing a blow to Ramza's head. But the blood flowed free and life was lost.

Ramza retrieved his sword. The two hurried back to his chocobo, and Ramza's thoughts burned on the matter.

This was most definitely not a random bandit attack. The lunge, their ferocity, was too intense. Mercenaries, sellswords and other such swords for hire?

No, they fought more alike the Corpse Brigade.

Such groups were not uncommon however…

He and Alicia readied themselves back atop the mount.

Just in time for another strike of lightning to force Lavian's bird down. She landed better than her compatriot but an enemy sword was their to meet her and blood was drawn from leg.

And assailant's life was taken with Captain's mythril.

Annabelle moved and pulled up Lavian stop her chocobo. It was a struggle and a strain.

"Fall back to the ridge!" Agrias ordered and her command spurred everyone forward.

One foeman broke from their pack. Not as ill-equipped as his compatriots (face obscured by crystal helm, bodied in silken robe, mantle called elven hung from his back), he rushed forward after them as they retreated. No sword in hand, still rested in sheath. But by his armors 'twas a strong blade. Better make than Church's gifts.

Better than any bandit, hired blade or rebel should have.

The leader, for that is what he clearly was, struck out against Agrias's chocobo as the rearguard. His hands glowed with an awesome power. Not simple swordsmen but a monk as well. His fists snapped the thin legs of the word and sent it to ground.

Agrias rolled and recovered, blade already at the leader's face.

Other Lionsguard and Ramza turned about.

Arrow bolted itself into Ramza's mount and the two riders plummeted. Alicia, already prepared managed to land the better, but Ramza slammed against ground like a clod. His legs were not trapped, but by time he pulled himself free Agrias began her duel against the armored monk.

His fists were swift and strong, and enough to put Agrias on the defensive. This was no ordinary fighter either.

Yet he led such chaff.

But sheer numbers would win out.

"I will provide white magick support," he told Alicia and stepped from the enemy lines. She moved to cover him, quickly engaging the duo of men oncoming.

His first move was speeding a simple cure spell towards the injured Lavian. The hobbled Lionsguard fought off two assailants with Annabelle's aid but her leg was dripping red. His spell finished and she quickly kicked an enemy straight in his face and brought her sword about for the finishing blow.

Agrias had recovered her footing and pressed back, a few slashes with her sword earning breathing room. The enemy lead saw fit to keep their duel isolated. Other foemen were circling, but kept distance, preventing Lionsguard from aiding their Captain directly.

Ramza was no so unencumbered. With brief moment he chanted a spell of protect over to Agrias and the Lionsguard Captain redoubled her aggression, quickly putting the monk on the retreat.

He barked some order and the enemy made for Ramza. Alicia had bested her foes with nary a scratch and now served to engage the trio advancing.

Ramza dashed forward to quickly aid her. She kept two at bay, but the third managed to make stabs that pushed against her. Nothing pierced armor, yet, but was only matter of time.

The third man came in for a low stab but his blow was prevented by a deflection from Ramza's sword, which quickly turned towards a stab right back. The man threw himself backwards, but the awkward formation they'd made was rife with chaos. Ramza and Alicia made work of the three of them.

But four now took their place.

Agrias was locked in combat. Lavian and Annabelle were swarmed from all sides.

Ovelia looked on, nigh powerless to help.

Even if they were besting foemen handily now, the sheer weight of numbers would turn against them soon enough.

The most recent attackers against Ramza and Alicia stopped short.

Lightning struck the two first and the enemy moved in to take advantage. Their blades were fast and deadly. A cut above the riff-raff prior. Ramza took a gash to his shoulder attempting a defense and Alicia could no longer cover her lower ends and was stabbed mercilessly in the foot.

Ramza responded with a sudden rush of aggression, catching one off guard. Ramza brought sword high and the enemy readied shield.

Ramza's target did not.

A killing blow in one of those engaging Alicia; freed her to take the other alone.

A price paid for in arrow to Ramza's back and sword slash to follow. He whirled about to fight off the back-strikers. His shield clashed with

Alicia finished off her opponent, taking a blow to her chest in the process. She moved to assist.

Pain in his back winced his muscles. Ramza could not defend himself as adequately as he should. Were his mind not preoccupied with the battle he might have laughed. He bested so many knights on a bridge yet this was his undoing?

One of them slipped past his sword guard and cut across his elbow. The armor absorbed it but the impact shook his arm. The other threw aside safety and grappled with Ramza's shield. Ramza swung—blocked by foemen's shield; sword aimed at his neck.

Ramza twisted back, the grip on his shield arm too tight.

The man struck.

Alicia struck first.

Sword point through his neck first.

He fell, dead.

The other soon after from another chop.

Ramza nodded thanks and went to his casting.

Lavian and Annabelle had been dismounted and now fought a ferocious battle against overwhelming enemies, and numerous corpses.

Agrias fared best. The enemy monk was being pressured, cuts across his robe and movements a tad sluggish compared to before.

No more men rushed from the forest.

No sight of archers or their black mage.

Half these were conscripts at best and those who managed a modicum of skill relied more on base savagery than that, save their lead. If they could eliminate him they might be able to break the enemy ranks.

His spell finished; pain ebbed. "We must target their leader," said Ramza.

A thick wall of bodies blocked them. "'Tis a difficult task."

His selection of white magick had shortened his offensive abilities against crowds. The Lionsguard outside the circle also lacked. One day more and he might have been able to advise Ovelia on minor boons and gone with black magicks to cover but… No use in cursing that fate.

"We'll need Lavian and Annabelle's aid," he said. Their siege flew rife with red. Alicia and he could fall upon the fore of the enemy. Pincered within, they might succeed.

A roar erupted from the duel and both turned towards the source.

The monk had drawn his blade.

A familiar sight with it.

Diamond that begat gems of ice.

Judgement Blade fell upon Agrias.

The mystical strike of Holy Knights used against one of their own. Cheers from the enemy. Shock from Alicia. Distraction against Lavian and Annabelle. They were struck in their moment's hesitation.

But for everything made sense to Ramza.

Agrias remained stuck. Frozen as if for true by the magicks of the holy art wielded by one who hardly was.

Alicia abandoned any promise of strategy to rush towards her Captain.

Ramza was faster. Not by fleetness of foot but power.

He leapt far and free over the entire gang and landed between Agrias and Wiegraf. His leg near snapped from the landing.

He threw aside his shield and readied blade with both hands. He had to end this fast. So close, Ramza could see in detail the number of wounds on Wiegraf wrought by Agrias. He drew his sword out of desperation. She'd have bested him, as he was.

The foemen recovered from hesitation of their own and charged at him.

Wiegraf waved them off. Not a word spoken.

"Spare us the games, Wiegraf, or do you wish to exact your vengeance in silence?"

He paused at the comment, and chuckled. He pushed up his visor, revealing the smug face of the Corpse Brigade Captain. "Well met, Ramza."

By no measure could this be coincidence. Whatever measure saw them found was told. "What band of thugs have you thrown your lot in this time, Wiegraf?"

"My allegiances stay the same, a far cry from yours, it seems. You beat me bloody to convince me of righteousness and now you turn against them? I think your epitaph shall be the 'Traitor' should anyone care for your demise."

"Do not consider your victory so at hand." If he could hold steady for Agrias to recover they might be able to clear through and regroup.

"Then you should not delude yourself in thinking this scenario contains a future for you." He pointed well at the surrounding foemen. "A fair difference from the Windflats, I say."

"Dead Men that became dead men. Your subordinates fared the worst between our confrontation, so what did you promise this lot to give their lives so willingly?"

Wiegraf smirked. "They fight for their own cause, as they always have. I simply give them a target for their ire."

Yet another group of anti-crown rebels then. "Aye, they bark on the command of their new Master is it?

"You've abandoned every cause you stood for, and seek to lecture me?" Wiegraf shot him a toothy grin. "Harken well ladies, this man shall break your trust. He'll soon sway from your sides as he has so many others. Fickle and craven."

"You would have us take your word over his," said Agrias, recovered. "Foolish."

Wiegraf did not take annoyance at her return. "Ramza's play for time did well it seemed. Mayhap you'd like to drive your sword to his backside? Your dames may go free and lady east."

"I'll take no oath of yours." She stood aside Ramza.

"Yet you take this boy at his word? Let me enlighten you his name—"

"Ramza Beoulve," she cut him off. "A shock. Brother against brother and him against Church. But his respect for us deserves it in kind. He has proved himself true comrade. More so than you ever could."

Therein did a flash of grievance strike Wiegraf's face. "Delude yourself with his lies all you like. I see the glimpse of mistrust upon your pretty face. 'Tis shame this farce must end. Be upon them!"

A scream cut off their advance. Piercing through the snowfall becoming harsher. From the trees.

Archer ran loose. "Enemies!" she shouted before lance of a chocobo knight silenced her for good. Warbird armored; crested with the white chocobo of House Beoulve. Knight atop, the same. White on white.

Zalbaag's knights. Sworn to House Beoulve. Knights Ramza knew. He'd pursued them into Zeltennia's border. Cause enough for war on its own. The lead they had towards Limberry gone by whatever grueling pace Zalbaag had set. How many nights without rest?

But that may yet prove their salvation.

Arrows rained into the circle, striking many; killing few.

"You've faced harder, form the square, don't let them through," Wiegraf ordered and replaced his helm. "Our business waits, seems your brother's caught our tail."

"You're mad," said Ramza, his own face obscured by helmet.

"We'd all much see the lady princess east than west and dead. So lest you've all wish to die, we ally, just this once."

Enemies to allies to enemies. When would this mad world be at an end? Was there any way other? Wiegraf's forces could not best so many knights that now rode towards them. Ovelia might away, but Lionsguard and he could not. With aid they might best Zalbaag, but what then? Wiegraf would seek advantage no matter the combat and might take his vengeance mid-swing.

There must be some other way.

Lord Folmarv's words rang painful in his ear.

Some simple method he was overlooking.

Yes, there was.

"Zalbaag Beoulve!" Ramza shouted his voice to its highest. "I challenge you to a duel!"

His sudden warning froze both sides. Knights, amused at the foolish act. Ruffians, confused. Wiegraf torn between mirth and rage. Agrias, mouth agape.

But despite this, amidst the oncoming rank of knights, he did ride forth. Banner Beoulve blazoned bright. Armor-crystal, clad in the finest make in Ivalice.

"You are no knight, Delita, and have nothing here that I cannot take by force."

"I know where Ramza is," said Ramza, his voice disguised once more.

"Her Highness matters more than my wayward little brother," he replied.

What else did he expect? With such cruelty he displayed at Ziekden. "Are those the thoughts that comforts you at night? Or does Tietra's blood not stain your mind red?"

"I do not answer to you." With a simple shift of his head, he shoved away all guilt. "Your Highness, this man misleads you! His own vendetta would use you for his own ends. I beseech you see through his lies and end this misguided struggle!"

"He has been more honest with me than any man I know!" she responded. "You may not answer to him, but you claim yet to me. So answer: What did you feel when you committed the crime he accused you of."

Ramza couldn't hear, but he was certain Zalbaag grumbled. "I committed no crime, Highness. People die under my command. His sister was one of them and he would hold me as the villain over the men who kidnapped her."

"Their hands may have been 'round her neck, but 'twas your order that loosed Argath's bolt and sped her demise!"

"His aim was not unflawed," Zalbaag did reply. (Perhaps to prevent wasting time reordering through Ovelia). "

"There was no need shoot in the first place!"

"Those bolts ended the threat of the Corpse Brigade."

Hardly did they. Ramza could see Wiegraf snickering beneath his helm.

"She was not the first to die in the campaign nor was she the last."

"Knights and squires that knew the risk of battle. She was innocent, Zalbaag!"

"She was not the first innocent to die either."

"But by your hand she did..."

"This conversation goes nowhere. Tell me where Ramza is and you may yet reunite with him."

"You think he doesn't feel the same as I?"

"So be it." Zalbaag returned to the ranks. "You've thrown all warning and good sense aside. Put an end to them."

At once the knights leveled their lances and resumed their charge.

"Survive, Agrias," whispered Ramza. He prepared spell, best he could. One last protect, what little he could manage.

The chocobo knight lances pierced through the lines like they were wet paper. Armor and body could not stop the advance. Only death impeded, but by seconds.

Twenty-to-one (whatever exact, irrelevant) may have emboldened Wiegraf's men, but half their number dead in one charge proved too much. They broke. Lance broke with them.

Agrias swung her blade, unleashing the Judgement Blade's ice on five foes at once. Three knights and steeds and a single other.

Wiegraf cared not. Striking in tandem with a burst of martial wave fist. One knight fell of his mount.

Eighteen more did come. With one chocobo, and knight trailing behind.

His spell enhanced Agrias and himself.

Another knight grabbed from saddle and beaten by a half-dozen blades. Half those assailants cut down by other knights.

Wiegraf shouted a dozen curses at the knights as they closed in.

Gods forgive him. Ramza abandoned Agrias and leapt over the advancing lines. Sword in two hands he aimed at Zalbaag.

The Knight Devout swung his sword about and knocked Ramza off course. He landed—he slipped. He tumbled and rolled back to his feet. His left leg throbbed near his foot. These sloppy jumps were wearing on him more than enemy attacks.

"You've learned new skills, Delita."

Zalbaag was harried and without rest. If there was any time to best his brother, it was now. He exchanged no words but a swing of his blade!

Height and arm strength favored the elder and he blunted the attack with ease. Chocobo pecked Ramza's helm and Zalbaag followed with a club on the head.

Ramza staggered back. His vision blurred (or perhaps it was snow). He shook his eyes straight.

He need to dismount his brother. Fast.

Zalbaag did not advance.

In the distance, Ramza could see the Lionsguard retreating to their charge. Agrias, obscured by chocobos. Wiegraf ferociously cutting about the knights near him.

All hope laid on him. Somehow, he had to manage. Be victorious, make this right.

Right…

He looked back at Ovelia.

This was for _her_. He'd lost himself in Wiegraf, and Zalbaag.

The knights had to be pushed to their limits on fatigue. Even now they were slowing, and more were entangled in close combat.

Zalbaag's diamond raiment was too heavy for him to pursue on foot. Added on foods, he'd have to disarm himself considerably. They needed to incapacitate the birds.

He disliked having to fight loyal knights. Loyal animals as well. Zalbaag cared rather deeply for Choco.

If their was one flaw to a chocobo, it was its thin legs. If Ramza could strike a decisive enough blow he might hobble the beast.

He'd have to hope the others managed something similar.

Ramza readied himself. Zalbaag was not bring his full wrath upon him. Tiredness, or prior fondness, neither mattered but how Ramza could take advantage.

Ramza charged in. Zalbaag shifted to favor his shielded side. Choco glared furiously.

Ramza closed in. Zalbaag stabbed. Ramza ducked under, the blade scrapping aginst his helmet and clearing a gash through the top. Choco pecked at his back and tore a ragged hole in Ramza's pauldron. He stumbled, and hit the ground hard with his knee (an explosion of pain forced out of mind).

Ramza turned. Ramza swung.

Flat of the blade and terrible positioning. The swing bounced off the chocobo's legs to the bird's annoyance.

Flat on his back, sword in left hand, too impossible an angle to attack with the weapon.

But the feet of a dragoon were weapons.

Ramza pulled up his good right leg and kicked out the bird's left.

No minor annoyance this. Choco squawked in pan and stumbled away slightly unsteady.

Ramza's leg felt shattered (again) from the kick. Thin they may be, 'twas like kicking solid diamond.

Zalbaag marshaled Choco forward, but the bird hobbled, just a tad. With full weighted armor it could not pursue a fleet-footed man.

He'd accomplished his goal, but reaching his allies would be far more daunting.

Ramza struggled up. Both his legs screaming at him to stay down in the lightly snowed dirt. Doing so would just get a chocobo's talons slammed down on his chest.

Zalbaag still advanced, but at slower pace. He saw the state Ramza's legs were in. To jump once more might well render them useless.

But he did so anyway.

Just getting himself back in the air was painful enough that he could no longer stifle a scream, but he managed.

His perilous leap floated long enough for a full view of the battlefield.

The hordes of men Wiegraf had managed were a small handful of rabble now. Reduced to the dead and those nearly their. Not even ten of them stood to fight back. Their leader himself fought with a savagery Ramza had not seen in his prior encounters. Already three knights lay dead at his feet, even as a lance stuck in his back and more wounds than knights punctured his body.

Agrias had retreated well. Her shield arm was red but the protective measure still hung. Her sword had broken in combat at some point and the shattered blade—more like a dagger was fending off a knight and his blade. Two chocobo knights laid near her path and another soon upon her.

The rest of the Lionsguard were huddled near Ovelia. The princess had clearly used her Aegis spell upon them, for they did not fight as if near death against twice their number. Twice the number mounted and better equipped.

Ramza's flight had not been the most precise use of jumping. Even had his legs not come close to rebellion he'd have not made an exact landing.

So his descent was marked with plowing painfully into one of the knights.

At least he dismounted him.

But the knight grappled against Ramza and held him tight. Still-mounted foe turned, lance ready to skewer.

Alicia swept 'round to lend aid.

A roar of pain.

A pale lavender light cut through snow and white. All stunned by whatever occurrence.

Ramza recovered and forced himself free. Roll to his side, and now in sight the melee and light's source. Brighter, like the sun, floating above Wiegraf clutching the earth.

 _God Stone bearer, with me now do treat._

Thoughts not his own pierced Ramza's mind like a lance with chill deeper than snow.

Eyes adjusted at the source of light and most assuredly voice. Auracite floated. Any mind of logic told him a stone could not speak but every bit of his body screamed it could (when not screaming in pain).

 _God Stone bearer, with me now do treat. Your spirit and my flesh as one shall merge. Life undying yours forever more._

A bargain of such allure. But to who?

But of course he who bore it. Wiegraf! As Cletienne held stone. As Zalbaag held stone. The Braves were no mere legend.

He had to stop this!

 _Your ire and despair, their call I heed. And so once more I ask: With me do treat._

Wiegraf vanished.

* * *

To Delita's experience, Isilud seemed not much for conversation on their way to Orbonne. Perhaps slaughter of fellow clergyman weighed on his mind.

Well enough for Delita.

The early warmth of winter and turned bitter by the time they arrived. Snow began to fall. So far a cry from the rains on his prior visit.

Templars were set on watch outside. Delita, scarfed his face. Best not give away their intentions yet.

The other Templars settled in the inside, graciously accepting the hospitality of men and women they were about to murder.

Isilud declined a lead to Elder Simon's office. He knew the way.

His face also wracked with doubt.

"Do not give plain our business on your face, Isilud," said Delita.

"We do what's best for Ivalice," Isilud said more for himself than Delita. "There can be no doubt in that."

The lies.

"Then let us be about this." Casualties for a better Ivalice indeed.

They entered into the Elder's office, a cluttered thing with more books than open space. The Elder himself sat behind his desk, engrossed within some tome he held.

"Elder Simon Penn-Lachish," Isilud announced.

The old, balding man sparked up in surprise. "The Templarate?" he said, and set aside his tome of interest. "My apologies for not meeting you at the entrance to our hallowed halls. Please, how may I aid you? And sit, sit, if it would do you well." He hurried off his seat to clear others of clutter.

"We are here to investigate a sensitive matter, Elder."

"The matter with Her Highness I presume." He nodded. "There is little I cannot say my missive to Mullonde did not. As Lionsguard informed me, five men did attack the fore and met with their end and then did two men kidnap Her Highness. One bore a cloak of the Black Lion. Lord Zalbaag Beoulve followed shortly after, taking with him the Lionsguard Captain, Lady Agrias Oaks."

"Hold, Elder," Isilud stopped the irrelevant flow of information. "'Tis not that we seek."

"What, then?" The Elder stepped back. A defensive move. He knew what was coming.

Knew the depths of the Church's corruption, did he?

Isilud closed the door behind them. "It is with a heavy heart that we bring such an accusation amongst one of our flock."

"I do not see Inquisitors at your back."

The man was not without some fire, it seemed.

"No need for their brand of hunting, Elder, as I'm sure you're well aware." Isilud shook his head. "Simply let us handle the holy artefact as is our right and you can go back to your books."

"My mind is old and weary, good ser templars, I've not a whick of what you claim is within my possession."

Isilud frowned. "Play no games with a thin a tread as you manage Elder. Keeping auracite from Mullonde is a frightful sign of heresy. Even should the stone belong to the royal family."

The old man seemed even more frail as he sighed. "If I hand the auracite over, please, spare our brothers."

"Come now, if we wanted such bloody work we'd have brought the Inquisition."

"You made the right call, Elder," said Delita.

The door slammed open. Delita (and Isilud came 'round ready to fight. The interloper tackled him—hugged him.

"Delita!" said Alma already on the verge of tears. "You're alive!"

"A-Alma…" he gasped.

This plan had gone completely awry.

She looked up at him, she ignored their stations, the presumptions and ways of decorum. She ignored the other people. The knights outside glaring furiously. "Where's Tietra? Where's Ramza?"

"I… Alma… let go…"

"Oh?" she sounded dazed. "Oh, oh, yes, pray forgive my mannerisms." She loosed her grip. "Where?" she pleaded.

"That is…" There was no answer he could give. "Mayhap we have a moment in private…?"

"No ser, you may not," one of the dames said. Her hand looked ready to draw. "By what manner are you accustomed with the Lady?"

"Gillian, please," said Alma. "He is friend to my brother."

"I recall not this man riding with Ser Zalbaag."

Zalbaag? Had Alma come here thinking he'd returned to Orbonne than Bervenia? How had she escaped in any case!?

"No, friends with Ramza."

"Then he left service."

"That doesn't matter," Alma shook her head, "please, where's Ramza? And Tietra!"

Every repeat of her name clawed at his heart.

"I would much liken to hear the former as well." Old voice that rasped and tinged mildly familiar.

The old knight from the falls stepped from behind the dames.

"Rather miraculous your survival, I'd claim. Lady Alma step free from that criminal."

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"That man kidnapped Her Highness the Princess Ovelia. Had I not put stop to it, he would have taken her straight to Duke Goltanna against her wills."

"And who are you ser?" the other dame asked.

"Just a man in Northern Order's employ commanded to see the sight of Her Highness's abduction for whatever clue that could be mustered."

Gods be damned what disaster was this.

"I know not what you speak, ser knight."

"You play a game of ignorance then?"

Delita did not reply.

The tension crackled like lightning. Any moment could turn this into a slaughter no one wanted.

"I would take it your helmeted friend, was dear lady's brother. Gone northwards, with her Highness, I am told. Did you know that Ser Zalbaag pursues them? Rather a sad tale to see brothers fighting."

"Delita, what's going on?"

"Lady, convince this lout to tell the truth if you want to meet your dear missing brother again."

Damn old man.

"Delita tell me!"

There were no options to salvage this. Every thought led to a fight. There was no damn thing he could do.

"I am an investigator with the Church, come to record a first-hand account of the abduction that took place of Her Highness, Princess Ovelia. I know not who this old man confuses me with, but this is the first time I've left Mullonde in a month."

"With a Templar escort, for safety," Isilud added. "Dangerous times these are, that a princess is kidnapped within the Northern Order's watch."

"You lack the tongue for such lies, boy."

"'Tis the truth." Or close enough. "I was found near-death by the Church after Fort Ziekden. To repay my gratitude for their saving my life, I swore myself to their service."

"What happened?" asked Alma. "Where are Tietra? Ramza?"

"I know not where Ramza has gone. Tietra died." Blunt as it was it still stung.

"No!" Alma clasped her hands.

"Amongst a good many Northern Sky knights," said the old knight.

The fort exploding would have covered any evidence of such crimes.

"Isn't that right, girl?"

The man stepped aside.

And from behind stepped Margarete Darlavon. Somber, tired, dreaded. By the Gods what horror had she endured under Dycedarg's jailing?

"Delita. Alma," her voice said as dead as her eyes. "We fought, and killed the Northern Sky knights tasked with conquering Ziekden Fortress."

Betrayal was something Delita lived with vicariously. So he knew precisely how they managed to dig their claws into her, beyond whatever horrors force experienced. Dycedarg had her father.

"Delita and Tietra were incinerated when the Fortress went up in flames. Or so we thought. The rest of us returned to Gariland. Ramza left us. I don't know where. I don't know where anyone else ended up but I…" She glanced at the old knight. "I thought the better of it and turned myself in."

She was caught. Her father was caught. And now they held his life for her cooperation for whatever ends.

"This man is a traitor against Crown, White Lion, Northern Order and Beoulve. Even against your Church as well. Templar Captain cut this diseased flesh aside and let us pry the secrets of Her Highness's kidnapping from him."

Dammit. Isilud was about to commit an extermination 'twas not beyond him to accept this deal and save face with the Church.

"We are to be rather neutral in the matter pertaining Her Highness's security."

"Is that how it is?" The old man scoffed. "What say you, dames of the Northern Sky?"

"How certain are we of your loyalties, either?" one of the addressed answered. "You come with girl who claims to have killed knights."

"Pardoned for proud prior service and dedication to work harder." He grunted. "But mayhap that not the question at hand for your pair. Why does the Lady Beoulve come here? She should be safe and secure in Lesalia Preparatory Akademy."

The accusation silenced their say, for the time.

"What of you holy man, cowering in the back? Was the mission of these two so benign to write such fearful an expression on your face?"

Cowed so easily; now that turned against them. Delita and Isilud turned towards the Elder. Unsteadily, weathered. He seemed ready to fall over from stress.

"P-please, leave this Monastery at once. Your politics have no place in the home of the Gods."

"So, not one here seeks sense? Unfortunate. I will simply have to report to the proper channels the disobedience on display here."

The man knew Delita couldn't let him walk. If he revealed the Church's culpability in the kidnapping the White Lion would root them out before dealing with the Black. And with no passage of getting Virgo to Ovelia, out went a significant piece of authority for Ovelia's claim.

This man, those knights. Would not be difficult to slightly adjust for them. They had more than enough Templars.

But Margarete. But Alma!

Damned by the both of them and old Dolvoron's blood flowing as well. Might they ambush the man on his way east? Whatever escort he had could not be but he and Margarete. Yet still not enough to take Delita's head outright.

"You answer to my Lord Brother Dycedarg, do you not?"

"I have not such freedom to answer that, dear girl."

A 'yes' in so off-hand a denial.

"Zalbaag rides north, Ramza runs missing. Dycedarg is the only one who could have sent you."

Delita rather enjoyed watching the man squirm from Alma's deduction.

He grunted before his reply. "You are a clever lass, that I admit. Mayhap why these two knights accompany your little sojourn. So be it. Yes, I work for your Lord Brother. 'Twas why I stood guard at Zeirche Falls and saw this one with the princess heading east. Elder! Speak free the truth they came here for and Lord Dycedarg would offer his protection!"

"What truth, what do you mean?"

"Alma, don't believe him…" Delita argued weakly…

"These men came to clean house of any witnesses that did bare witness to Her Highness's abduction. Your Lord Brother thought it prudent to put stop to it."

"Such boldness reveals your lies. You'd have a company or more at your side for so virtuous a purpose. And I've no trust in morality for the man who did order my sister killed."

"So, you join hands with the Black Lion for vengeance aye?" He nodded. "You hold no power to change no matter whose flag adorns your back."

That damnable condescension he could not stand.

"Guarantee Lady Alma's safety, it is paramount."

The Elder's voice drew all attention to him.

"Be silent, old man," Isilud rasped.

"I will tell you everything you need to know about the Church's involvement in Her Highness's abduction."

Dogged old fool, did he think he was surviving this turning on the Church as he was?

"And they?" the old knight asked.

"He, for true, is one of the abductors."

The Elder was absent any spying. The lies!

"Elder Simon, what are you talking about?" asked Alma. But her dames took pried her out of the office.

The Elder slumped against the back wall. His will given out to a look of resigned defeat. "Please, do not make a fuss. This is for your safety."

"You've made the wise choice, Elder. Ladies, let us take these men into rightful custody."

"Gillian, Malin, do not listen to him!"

"We are here to assure the Lady's safety," said one of the dames. "Not do your work, clean or dirty."

"Then stay clear our way and not share the bounty of success."

They did so, dragging an noncomplying Alma aside and out of sight. Though not out of ear as she continued to scream.

The old knight, Margarete, and a squire boy somewhere about their age. Three against two. Or perhaps four, should the Elder attempt something.

"You think your chances any the better now?" Delita hissed. Odds all the worse prior and he'd sent the old man near to his death.

"Thrown aside your shroud of falsehoods have you? No matter." The old knight drew his sword and held it to Margarete's exposed neck. She did not even flinch. "I see the lack of concern for defenseless priests in your eyes but you showed me quite the form of self-sacrifice on that bridge. If you'd like your friend's pretty little neck to stay hole you'd best comply." A damned dirty coward. Damned bloody brilliant.

"You would profane these halls with such threats!" one of the dames out of sight shouted loud enough. "Your own ally as well, you are low as you claim he to be."

"Crass act that may yet be what does not spill blood. The choice of what blood is spilt lies on their heads, not mine. Choose: Surrender or her death and yours."

"Don't kill Margarete!" Alma screeched.

She was just another sacrifice. Necessary. For a better Ivalice. One where men like this did not belong. Where Dycedarg who did condone this did not belong. An Ivalice where men who killed the hostage were held accountable.

"I cede."

Delita unfastened his belt. The sheath and sword within thudded to the monastery stones.

"Are you mad!?" Isilud gasped.

"You've chosen honor, you fool," the old knight scoffed. "Kick your blade." Delita did so and the old knight stopped it. "Your friend's, too."

Delita looked at Isilud.

"I've done naught wrong and a dozen Templars to prove it."

"A dozen who'd do well to listen, lest their noble officer's head be a mirror of this."

Isilud glared at the knight, then at him. He clutched something within his doublet—and vanished in a burst of white light.

"Bah," the old knight grunted. "A teleport stone." He sheathed his blade from Margarete's neck. She did not seem to care, or notice. "Ladd, cuff that one."

"Aye, ser." The squire stepped out, to full view. He looked unsure, soft. Auburn hair and well-fitted cap. Movements not quite right, but getting there. The knight did not bring Eagrose's most steadfast with him.

But he did bring cuffs, which clamped down heavily on Delita's wrists.

Well and good he learned a bit of lockpicking during his travels.

"Elder," the knight addressed, "we've little time before the Templars regroup. Whatever they came for and threatened you so to turn, tell me so we may barter our passage away."

He did not reply.

"Do not rethink your life's choices now, of all times. If you'd prefer a glimpse of Saint Ajora you'd not have done as you have."

"Yes… yes, of course," the old man sighed at the depressing sight. "They sought the auracite within our possession."

"It is valuable, why?"

Not the most pious man, this knight.

"'Tis a most holy artefact from the Church's history. To not tribute it to Mullonde upon our acquiescence, was crime enough of heresy."

Would the lie be sold? The old knight scrutinized the tale told. "Then no heavy lose to part with it." It held. Or perhaps impatience forced his hand. "Where is it?"

"Deep in our underground book storage."

"Bugger to that. Holing up in some musty old book depository. They could simply starve us out." The knight looked back at Delita. "You, how many Templars accompanied you this time?"

"I was not aware," Delita replied.

"You can still walk and talk without fingers, boy. Cooperate."

"As if I expect anything but death from your side."

"Do not threaten him!" Alma screeched and forced herself back between them. "I care not for what you claim. Delita is a good man and I'll not see you treat him like common criminal."

Poor, mistaken Alma.

"And do not deflect it to Margarete either."

"So be it, little lady." He looked at the boy squire. "Get him walking, now."

The squire grabbed the cuffs and dragged. Delita stood firm. If he could busy enough time for Isilud to regroup they might be able to clean this mess.

The squire grimaced (rather unthreatening, considering the fresh out of the akademy look he had) and sharply pulled. Delita stumbled forward, but followed in their little walking column.

Alma spared him a look of pity. The only noble who would—and more because half her blood was as common as his.

Margarete led the van, followed up the old knight, Alma and her escorts, the squire dragging Delita and the Elder at the rear.

None impeding their escape. Curious, because Delita distinctly remember some of the chambers Templars sequestered themselves in, and because no wandering priests burdened their pass.

A place rife for ambushes, and almost certainly why Margarete was fore. Draw their ire and first strike. Expendable. Despicable.

Yet far from the worst considered this day.

Alma continued to protest her treatment. The knights at her side tried to placate her, but to no avail. Her voicing could well mask any movements around.

It did.

Three knights templar burst free from a left hall. Shields raised, swords ready. Four more came to view blocking passage out, and three more the way back. A third the forces granted, and no sign of Isilud. Three more doors unopened within their current pass. A hallway to Delita's right, ended at a door.

"Whatever your intent towards these men, leave us be!" one of the dames demanded.

Silences and glares were her answer.

The formations closed.

"Where does that passage to our right go," the old knight asked the old elder.

"The book depository."

"Is there some other passage out?"

"Yes, a secret, known only to I."

"We break for it. Girl, you first, if this be trap spring it. Ladd, you and he next. Order knights, the Lady and Elder. I'll cover the rear."

So noble his act. But that draining swordskill of his would play its part well.

Their impromptu alliance shuffled towards their goal.

A thought flirted by Delita's mind: Sabotage. If he struck difficult he could turn this situation to his favor.

But such ensuing melee would be too dangerous for Alma and Margarete. He'd let whatever plan Isilud had in place come.

Margarete led their show retreat to the door. The Templars did not advance, but the ten of them were now forming ranks. No enough for them to overwhelm at once, but close to.

She opened the door. No eruption of light either way. No blades or deadly spells to stop her. Slowly they followed her in.

The lack of combat added to the tension.

The old knight was last in and barred the door shut by pulling down one of the bookcases nearby.

"That is not the only entrance to this sublevel," said Elder Simon.

"Where is the stone?"

"Deeper, still."

"Then lead old man." His patience was wearing thin.

The Templars striking at the door sounded their descent.

Flights of stairs, tomes so old they could be smelled and ancient stonework dusted with shards of itself.

The second level neither was the receptacle of the auracite. Further down they went. Stones of mismatched color and wooden supports splintering and propped by fresher cuts.

The third level, was where the Elder claimed the stone sat.

Each step on a pile of books set as tight as any stone street. Awkward to move, soft in a way earth was not. The few stones their were, once more changed in color: gray. Disuse had sown moss and green growths between the cracks. The terrain was uneven, arches and bridges just tall enough for a man to walk under. No bookcases here, but many a tome secured within recesses in the walls.

"Books make for poor groundwork," the old knight remarked. None could deny him that.

A small alcove near the back was where Elder Simon led them. He pulled free a tome of no particular markings. Within it, a cut space. Large enough for the stone.

Shaped like teardrop and shine cyan. Inscribed within its facets was the heavenly sign: Virgo.

The old knight snatched it without concern. "A fine gem. Hardly worth the effort."

Isilud fell from above and plunged his blade into the knight!

Nightblade's sword stabbed deeply and through. The knight's grip on the auracite ignored and gem fell free. The knight pinned to the ground. Isilud's foot on his chest and sword now stuck within the book-ground.

The squire moved to assist but Delita kicked out his leg. The squire fell and Delita pinned his neck with the manacles.

"Templars, reveal!" shouted Isilud.

Those Delita did not see above now showed themselves. Isilud had moved quickly for this ambush. Too quickly. Did he know this potentiality in advance?

Nay, it mattered naught, for now.

"You're outnumbered, surrender!" ordered Isilud.

The dames, all three, were readied for combat.

"You've not won yet, boy," the old knight grunted. His left hand gripped the blade piercing the same shoulder. His right touched his own sword's grip. He could not draw in such position.

Isilud pushed his blade deeper. "You've rather lost."

That familiar spire of blood-red struck Isilud. The Templar gasped at the pain but did not flinch. But distraction, however small, was enough for the old knight to leverage and push Isilud off. The sword still lashed the knight to the ground, so Isilud managed to stand.

The squire struggled but Delita kept tight.

Maragrette's sword struck Isilud's left and knocked him into a wall.

The Templars standing on the shelves (what other name would they have) now began to charge at them.

"Mercy to the women!" Delita shouted orders his own.

The old knight picked himself up as Isilud turned to face him. Bloodied blade torn from his shoulder, the old knight tossed it out of Isilud's grasp and drew his own sword that colored the same as one thrown aside.

"Care, Isilud. He's some manner of life-leeching knight." The squire squirmed under Delita's grasp—tried elbows, even bites.

"A fell knight. Of the Eastern Sky, I take it?" asked Isilud.

His answer a forward slash. Isilud narrowly stepped back in time.

The old knight did not have the luxury of time. A few breaths more and the situation would be impossible to control. So, he had to… "Isilud, away! He means to hold your life as barter!"

The nightblade leapt far and above out of reach of both blade and blade art, disappearing into the darkness above.

The fell knight could not strike at Delita, lest he stab the squire as well. He was beaten. "Cede," delita demanded. Mayhap he could end this swiftly.

"You overestimate your position." He dove. For Virgo. Sword poised to pierce the virgin. "This is too considerable an expenditure in manpower to be simple stone." The Templars still did advance. "Call off your dogs."

"Templars, halt."

They did.

Cancer survived the moving armor's explosion but such a risk should not be repeated.

"Release my squire."

Delita begrudgingly did so. And got a swift kick in his side as payment.

"I'll not bore us all. The ladies are yours, let me free with Ladd and the stone is yours."

'Twas a well good deal but this man had no intent to honor it, even if they could loose him.

Delita had a move. If timed concurrently with Isilud…

The fell knight clutched his sword ever tighter. "Answer or it breaks." He was too confident he had an out, even surrounded as he was. Knights did not go gray without knowledge.

Now! Delita formed within the energies needed and struck forward. Invisible strike—wave fist! Not at knight, not his sword but the auracite itself. Blown away (towards Alma). Templars once more advanced, their numbers reduced.

Isilud struck. Falling from invisible above. No sword but feet that high dangerous all the same. On the prior wound, not fully restored.

Pain and weight forced knight to his knees and then face first too bookend ground. Wound in left too sharp to hold two bodies.

Isilud flipped off, landing atop the stone walls of the book maze.

The squire stood ready to defend his master. Sword finally drawn, and aimed at the dozen enemies that surrounded them.

But not at the ones that didn't.

Dragoons who'd followed Isilud to the adrk heights crashed down. Three spears—three mortal blows.

"Gaffgarion!" the squire screamed in horror.

The old man was well beyond any help now. "Take my stone boy and—"

A deep blue light erupted.

Dread filled the pits of Delita's stomach. Every word for "no!" came screaming to mind. His eyes darted to the source that had frozen all in wonder. Within Isilud's tabard glowed a Zodiac Stone.

 _God Stone bearer, with me now do treat._

It was not the construct that beheld the demon! "Isilud dispose of your stone now!"

The befuddled fool simply gasped at the light.

 _God Stone bearer, with me now do treat. Your spirit and my flesh as one shall merge. Life undying yours forever more._

Gods be damned he'd not fight another Lucavi! Delita sprang forward. He had to kill the old man now!

"I'll take… that bargain!"

"No!" Delita screamed.

The fell knight vanished.

* * *

 **AN: Thanks for continuing to support A Templar Beoulve with those Reviews, Favorites and Follows.**


	61. Chapter 60: Leviathan's Wake

**Chapter 60: Leviathan's Wake**

 _Let sinners' wake be shown. Name thyself: Leviathan the Corrupt. Embrace all the sins of this world._

Voice and laughter rained into mind. An endless ocean with but one recourse: drown.

 _Who to think death my salvation? Fear to strength. Fear to destruction._

Ocean-colored light receded like the tide and folded in on the body of the fallen knight. Glow like the stone that tore itself free of Isilud's hold and towards the Lucavi forming. Delita pushed himself onwards to stop the unholy formation but it was a current he was not strong enough to swim against. Melded shape—not fully detailed gushed out. Serpent's form—long and reaching beyond sight in the twisty maze. Limbs—many, more than every present human's.

 _Scale unlike any other. Strength unlike any other._

Light subsided. Scales, gray-blue, like armor. Body no thicker than prior, yet so long and lost in the passages around. Arms—legs—limbs that seemed to recess and sprout when needed. Head where once was man. A large maw, jaws to crush and snap in half. Eyes beady and thin—no hint of mercy.

 _Mind busies with the wealth of ages. What twisted fate this is._

Lucavi.

"Kill it."

 _Kill the undying? Scale wrought as timeless as fools._

All backed way. The pressure on their minds clogged reason.

 _Embrace thine end!_

It rained.

Three depths underground covered by thick floors it rained.

A torrent that became a flood. To Delita's feet the water rose. All remained paralyzed.

"To the high ground!" Delita yelled—pleaded. He could not do this alone!

The malaise of fear was washed away with the rains. They scrambled above. Alma, her dames, Margarete, Elder Simon and even that squire. In demon's face all were allies now.

Reason returned. Hysteria with it. Who, where, what, why and all the relevant questions.

"'Tis Lucavi of legend!" Delita shouted over their despair. Hands bound still in manacles he clambered up the slickened stone shelves. The book-ground becoming lost under the ceaseless deluge.

Lucavi snickering broke through mind. A tendril of pain through the encompassing horror.

Delita reached "safe" ground, Alma forced up and Templars dragging, former foes aside.

"It can die!" Delita promised. "We can kill it! Strike hard—strike fast!"

 _Frailty of such is thy kin; not mine. Perish: Fools!_

"I've slain your kind before demon! I'll do so again!"

 _A kindness thou share; mark well thy words: thy last!_

Risk versus resolute. "Get the rest of the men down here!"

"Jacobs, go!" Isilud finished.

Whatever mild source of light extinguished. Darkness swallowed the whole. Rain still pelted. Below, the waters pooled and swirled.

"Cure!"

A brief explosion of light from simplest white magick. An ingenious use from the Elder Simon, to be sure.

"I shall mark the way. Go!" Desperation: A meal they all shared.

Green light marked path towards door, still shrouded in rains that clung so cold. Dragoon leapt in dark; leap of faith.

Faded light renewed he flew through the air. He could make it!

Splash proceed shudder in the dark, gush of water that struck Delita (and others). Serpent flew through air—snatched dragoon.

He screamed.

Splash, and no more screaming.

 _No matter the age man-flesh retains its vile taste._

This was not something they could fight. It would not allow it.

 _But fear? That remains exquisite._

What options did they have? Delita's arms bound. Isilud without weapon. Alma but an untested cleric. Margarete as knight, and two dames from Alma. The squire, near-untempered as Alma. The Elder, quick-witted, mayhap their only white mage, as if it mattered. Two dragoons, two archers and a summoner.

 _Thine every thought betrays. Shiver in the dark. Alone._

A torrent of water blew past. A scream.

Who died, Delita could not say.

"Help me!" the man thrashed in the waters below. The Elder's light illuminated him.

Poor timing to see the jaws crush another dragoon wide.

Leviathan's jaws…

"Summoner!" Delita roared. "Call upon Ramuh, now!"

"The bolts would strike us as well in this storm!" he replied.

"Less dangerous than simply waiting!"

"Do it!" Isilud repeated.

"I shall ward us best I may!" the Elder offered.

Chants cast in darkness.

Rain struck stone. Misery fell in equal measure. Waters below splashed so close to strike foot as it churned.

 _Amusement passes: Drown._

The thought-speak preceded an attack. "Dive!" Delita followed his advice.

Waters from above and below; scrapping stones. Delita near plummeted off into the waterways. 'Twas impossible to hear if any others had. Impossible to tell. An impossible situation. To fight Lucavi was never his intent. Damn that fell knight for forcing this twice over! What bitter irony.

"Shellja!" Light broke within the darkness. Sight returned—almost painful. Enough to see terror in every face. Tears mixed within all the falling rain. A glowing green shell around each. None had fallen.

"Master within the heavens, impart thy help! Ramuh!"

Esper formed. Image of man so old. Older still than fallen knight and Elder. Beard gray and long as robes. Staff tall as man with bottom like tree roots. Eyes that glared at the unholy abomination beneath the waves.

Lightning finished the storm.

A wellspring of power designed intelligent. Each of his many bolts that could splinter a tree struck within the ravenous pools. No esper could harm friend, but no natural weather was this. Not even the lord of lightning could stop his bolts from traveling along the water's surface. Shielded by Elder's shell, they endured.

The rain stopped. Both water, and lightning.

Resounding cry of outrage slammed through Delita's mind. A fiery lance in the chilled oceans.

Ramuh dispersed, the summoner's hold done.

Leviathan lived. No chorus of destruction had heralded their victory.

"Again," Delita hissed.

Vision dulled to but the shine of spell on their body.

Tongue lashed out from below. It wrapped around summoner's ankle. "No!" he screamed. "No!" he found no purchase on slippery stones. Hands of others shot out to save him. All dragged to the waters.

Glow of shell kept them visible. Made the Lucavi visible! It thrashed about in the head-heighted water.

Archers notched arrows and fired.

Delita launched a wave fist.

Isilud and sole dragoon soared high in madness.

The dames, all three, pulled the summoner loose.

Water turned yellow.

Their assault but a scratch. It still retreated.

Half a man pushed high. There was no surviving what he'd lost. Struggles ceased.

Their's, truly as well. He was but their one weapon.

 _The sport turns poor. An unwelcome shift. Witness!_

The tides turned and splashed over the case. Sound of falling water in distance. Slight glow to see: Serpent rising high. Smug, if such a thing could be said. Head that reached near the floating duo above.

 _The due glory granted. Be devoured, by the poisonous fangs of the serpent!_

Archers fired. Delita lashed out. Dames threw swords, clumsy, unskilled—desperate.

Nothing worked.

It spit—rush of water that clipped Delita's leg. He fell. Narrowly avoided slamming into stone. Moldy paper filled his nose. Water lapped at his face.

Rash, desperate attempts at bargain were made. The Lucavi speared away an archer.

Laughter shook the waves in mind.

"Saint Ajora save us." The Elder's words, the one set not fraught with despair. "Holy."

Light of lights. Power most high. Day came to their room of night. Pillar of divine fell upon the Lucavi's arrogant head.

Roared indignation.

Dragoon and Nightblade followed. Spear left impaled in back and followed kick of officer. Deep enough for but a hand's grip above. Driven far enough to pierce all way through. Two returned to the perch.

If but they had a bolt of lightning!

His thought on it—it came!

Black mage Templar from door above! Thundaga or lesser—did not matter! Was bolt so precisely aimed and needed.

Smoke and pain. The sea of mind had an end to swim for!

Leviathan spun: jaws fired. Water to quench the thirst of a city splintered out. The black mage, whatever to her sides and all Templars above were blown away. The light of outside rushed below.

 _My mirth ends! So too thy lives!_

Leviathan refocused on them. That same strike of water spat out.

Everyone who lived scrambled.

The foothold of stones erased beneath them.

Lost in the current Delita's head struck into every surface as he desperately pushed for air, whatever direction it was.

He'd gone through this once and this twice surpassed championed itself the worst.

Delita pushed for air and grabbed it in ragged breaths. Only glows of other beneath distorted waves. Who lived? Who died? _Alma, I'm sorry._

 _A Stone too precious to waste. An end to this diversion comes._

Dread sat in the pit of his stomach. Mayhap on an open plain they could best this demon, but not as such. Not as they were.

Something hard struck his foot. A sword.

Useless, desperate to swing in these waves. Even had he foothold solid no slash could break those scales.

But stab?

Delita braced himself against the closest wall. One arm worked. It'd have to do.

"Come to me you coward! I'll send you to Zebbev's side!"

 _Such boisterous yelp. A candle nearing its end. To extinguish it!_

Eyes slight adjusted, or mayhap he imagined it. But the waves parted and rushed. Leviathan came! Came with spear through its body. Might enough to drive sword to its head.

"Delita!"

He turned, saw. "Alma!"

She was near—too near! "Away!"

 _To death's embrace ye pair!_

"No!" He abandoned all thought of victory and pushed her away from Leviathan's attack. Sword no longer readied as it should as jaws sank low instead.

 _Thy mind no prize. Think thee I simply press into pointed blade?_

Delita stabbed with all might that remained. At its eye. But the blood red blade did not sink in as needed. It skittered of, cutting into the damage from spell.

Yet a renewed vigor took hold of Delita's body. More strength into the stab. Whatever he could! Whatever before he was devoured or tossed aside!

Other arm felt right and he pushed in!

Why was it ignoring him.

 _By all the fortunes of this world! Bloody Angel—your fate unveiled!_

From the corner of his eye Delita saw a slip of light. A spark of cyan.

Two Zodiac Stones.

Two Lucavi.

Delita screamed and struck with all his might.

'Twas not enough.

Leviathan tossed him aside like used rag.

Back struck shelf. Pain exploded—too much to gasp. His body would not move. But he saw, angled as he was. He saw the damned Lucavi snatch within its jaws the Virgo stone and Alma.

No! He could not emote.

No! He could not do anything.

Powerless again to stop someone he cared for from dying.

Leviathan left.

Delita could barely see between tears and drenched body. The hole he'd made.

No…

There were word after. Delita could not answer them.

Waterfall came from above, rising. Limbs first submerged, and slowly, body. Head could not rise.

Earthquake shortly after. The light of day cut off.

Orbonne Monastery above had been demolished.

Orbonne Tomb.

* * *

 **AN: A Speedy update. I'm scared.**

 **I wanted to do something other than "One Giant Dude" fights for the Lucavi, so have Jaws, IN THE DARK! Or something.**

 **Ramza's painful adventure resumes next Chapter. Wanted this to be its own thing.**

 **Thanks for the Review.**


	62. Chapter 61: Stone Salvation

**Chapter 61: Stone Salvation**

Wiegraf vanished.

The floating Stone's light faded as he did. Whatever magicks fueling it had stopped, and it fell down to earth without another sound.

But the sound that stung his head would stain for the rest of his days.

The manifestation's paralysis was slowly wearing off. Those near to death the first.

But Agrias, fastest of all.

She dove at the fallen Stone and held it hostage with her mythril. "Call off your knights Zalbaag, or I will pierce the artefact."

Rather familiar a scene.

Once more duty and piety waged their holy war in Zalbaag's mind.

By slightest edge was this their favor. But a moment prior and knights could have held Ramza or Lionsguard instead.

"I cannot do that."

Agrias brought her sword back.

"Hold!"

"Do not command me, lest you've offer to give."

Zalbaag pointed his sword at Ramza-in-disguise. "He asked for duel, than he shall have it."

Ramza wasn't even certain he could stand, as it was.

"Is this the honor of the Northern Sky? Demanding duel of the infirm?

"Would you prefer to end this, now?"

"Would you prefer shattered auracite?"

Zalbaag shuffled in his saddle. "Then let him be last. All yours, in order, against myself."

Northern Sky had double their numbers and more in mounts. 'Twas their best option, by now.

"If we best your challenge, we go free."

"I give you my word as a son of House Beoulve. And I swear to it, upon the good name of my late Lord Father."

Perhaps the one thing he could trust Zalbaag on, anymore. "Take it," Ramza rasped.

The Lionsguard passed the message to their Captain. "Your Highness, this decision is yours to make."

More burdens heaped on shoulders that were not yet strong enough to shoulder it well. "I would have the oath's of your men as well, each of them!" She held cunning of her own. "And any others, you may have in hiding."

"Those before you are all those I've brought." Zalbaag nodded to his knights.

"I swear it, upon my service to House Beoulve."

And repeated it went 'til all knights were bound.

"Let us make our conditions plain," said Agrias. "Our victory, and we shall take our tour east. You may have the auracite. Should you so swear to not pursue us any further."

The Stone's voice was worrying. To hand it to Zalbaag? Yet, Rama could not fault her for that.

"Very well. If I should win, Her Highness shall return with I to Eagrose. As will the lot of you, for interrogation and trial. You will cooperate. The auracite passes to my posession, for this, as well."

Zalbaag could simply ride them over. This was their best case now.

"Our side will hold the Stone, 'til the victor is decided."

"Agreed. The duel shall proceed, one against one. Swords only, no shields. No substitute blades should one be rent."

Zalbaag's defensive stance would be weakened without a shield. Did he have some further ploy in mind?

"I will strike not to kill. Let our aim be forcing the concession of the other. No harm comes by bowing aside, or clear winner established."

"I and my knights will endeavour not to strike mortal as well. I agree to the terms of surrender. Rest between bouts shall surpass no more than sixty drips of water through a cloth. You may take your next challenger earlier, however."

"Agreed. At your ready." Zalbaag dismounted from Choco and strode forward.

Delays served Zalbaag the better. Press him hard, press him fast.

Ramza had only a cure left in him. The jumps and broken focus had taken their toll. A dragoon's flaw was in complex magicks.

'Twould almost be funny that he managed better jumps on the Falls' bridge than here, were the circumstances not so dire.

There were ethers stored among the Church's supplies. Most would be smashed, but those fitted on Ovelia's should manage.

Agrias withdrew her threat on the auracite and took Stone in hand. "I shall take the first." She looked back at her knights, assessing them. Ovelia's magick had regenerated health well in the time spent. "Lavian second, Alicia third, Annabelle fourth, him, last."

If he could even move by then. She came back over. Close enough that Ramza could see her powering through the wounds inflicted in the melee. "I shall buy all the time I can," she said, removing her bent shield and handing over auracite. "Recover to your utmost."

"I need an ether," said Ramza.

"Get it to him." Agrias turned around, sword solely in hand.

(Cloth scrap taken from elsewhere to count.)

She and Zalbaag met amongst the bodies. Their swords, so different in make and durability met as marker before the clash. Three steps back, each took.

It began.

And it became abundantly clear why Zalbaag decided against shields.

Ramza had seen his brother be the aggressor before. Sparring, that fight at the river.

Yet neither compared to the sheer ferocity of the assault he leveraged against Agrias.

* * *

Agrias had first-hand experience in fighting against Zalbaag Beoulve. But it was only when she bore the full brunt of his assault that she realized how much her dames had blunted his offense. Every strike he made could shatter bone if she'd allow it. Her sword was already tearing itself apart absorbing blow after blow. Were a crystal raiment the ward of one of the rabble she might be able to outmaneuver her foeman, but Zalbaag's swings did not offer the slightest chance of a counter.

She could not win this.

She had to sap his stamina to her utmost ability. He'd ridden day and night for a week and longer. He could not sustain this offense.

Zalbaag paused, his sword brought low. It glowed. Agrias stepped back and angled her blade to shield herself. His swing angled upwards. It slashed through her weapon. The forward tip of her sword was slippentered. If she'd remained a step closer…

She wouldn't be able to maintain her defensive posturing either.

Zalbaag returned to his relentless assault.

Did he even feel fatigue?

But a new plan formed in her mind. Every blow she received shook her arms in pain. But each one she took on a specific angle. She could not rend his blade on the offensive, but the defensive?

Even still, hers was faltering the faster. Chips and cracks split the blade, and Zalbaag's remained unblemished. Another lightning-strong blow left her sword but the length of a dagger.

Zalbaag paused once more. An odd step, he had her. But his return soon commenced. Agrias continued to weather the torrent of blows until she could not any longer. Her arms were so unstable it might be miracle they still clutched the hilt.

He again paused for no adequate reason. Was this a precursor to his own limits? But the strike that followed was swift as ever. His sword's tip pierced into her guard and shattered it completely. She held her arms as shield for the next blow. Armor remained enough to deflect a blow or two and they'd enough potions to repair her arms.

Zalbaag's sword did not match her defense. He slipped underneath, and stepped in. One stab upwards and he could end her.

"I yield," she ruefully admitted.

His sword withdrew. "I shall take my next opponent immediately."

He was trying to end this quickly. Before he was exhausted? "Very well." Agrias departed. Her legs shook underneath her. Zalbaag's attacks had traveled further than she'd understood while in combat.

"Lavian," Agrias addressed her when close. "Sap his strength as much as you are able."

"Yes, milady."

* * *

A duel against Zalbaag made Lavian certainly nervous. He'd already bested the Captain. There was not much to do but wear him aside best as she could and continue with the Captain's plan.

She saw the point of contestation. If she could widen the flaw, Zalbaag would have to slow his swings or risk breaking the blade from his sheer force.

But it was easier thought than done. Even if she was in better condition than the Captain, she was the weaker swordswomen. Zalbaag's strikes nearly tore her sword grip free and she had to stammer a retreat to recover her stance.

Yet, Zalbaag allowed it. Mercy? Rest? Or was he signaling for a yield?

For any case, it allowed her to resume her defensive posturing.

What little it helped. Her weapon was cut apart like some wooden training blade. Her mythril was far and away the inferior to the masterfully crafted runeblade, but even still it could prove victorious with the correct useage. Such a thing looked distant indeed. They'd not been at this half the time of the Captain and she was already faltering.

Zalbaag's next sweeping slash shattered her blade in two.

And this was her moment.

She attacked.

Everything she had aimed at the weak point exposed by the Captain's efforts.

Zalbaag saw it coming and twisted his body aside.

The brief instant before the clash Lavian's mind filled with every prayer she knew.

Her desperate attack scratched the exposed point.

Zalbaag elbowed her in the chest and shoved her away. He again did that pause. He could have finished it, right here and now. One quick slice and victory...

She knew exactly what he was doing! "I yield!" she said with some embarrassing excitement.

"So be it. I require no break."

Lavian hurried back to the others, and questioning looks. "Those pauses of his are the key," she said. "I would think he's using a swiftly chanted quickness spell to maintain those powerful bursts of output."

"That is…" said Ramza, "yes, that makes sense. But he cannot maintain the strain of such a combination as long as he has, unless…" He glanced over at Zalbaag. Lavian followed it to see the man pacing during the interim. "Manafront."

Movement would restore the depleted stores of magick-producing mana within the body.

"It's a powerful combination. But he cannot maintain this pace without sustaining permanent injuries. He needs to end this as quickly as possible."

"Alicia," said the Captain, "strike when he rests and minimize his movements."

"I understand," said Alicia.

* * *

Understanding sometimes had little reflection on actuality.

Alicia faced off against Zalbaag Beoulve. His victories spoke for themselves. Even still, she had her duty to fulfill.

Alicia took the offensive unlike her peers.

It did not last long.

Zalbaag's defense was quick and parried her thrust. He struck back with a quick riposte against her left hand. Pain cut through her body and she had to drop her double-grip to put pressure on her new wound.

Still she did not recede.

She attacked again, using the slight opening of his successful attack to launch one of her own. Blade swung at Zalbaag's hands.

The awkward angle of her attack did no favors and her blow glanced off his gauntlets. Still, their positioning was now so peculiar Zalbaag could not follow it up immediately either.

He tried to make space—so Alicia pressured him. Following his retreats, she could not let him chant his spell!

Beoulve refocused himself unto the defensive stance reminiscent of the river. But without the vigor than, or the overwhelming power he'd been displaying. Lavian's deduction had been correct.

Alicia might not be able to break his guard, even depleted and sluggish as his movements were, but she could still could him off balance. She made quick, snapping thrusts to tire his arms. Nothing more than faintest touches, yet each demanded attention lest she sneak past

Her thoughts slowly turned to victory. The combat had slowed significantly now as fatigue set in for both, but Zalbaag was always half a step behind.

A clash set her sword ready. Zalbaag was open—sword too far low to bring for defense. Alicia took her stab towards his throat.

But her arm slowed, moved like through water.

His sword glowed.

It'd been out of mind, but he sapped her strength.

Still he could not parry as he was!

So he brought his left arm up instead. The slowed pierce made through armor, into flesh. Locked her arm.

His right, his sword came up.

Alicia abandoned her blade to leap back and avoid.

Still, it did not matter. She'd only earned a wield on her terms than his demand. "I yield," she bitterly spat out.

Zalbaag knocked out her blade with his own. "I shall take that full rest, this time."

Alicia limped back to the others in defeat. "Forgive me for not accomplishing more." (Lavian held the counting cloth.)

"You've done more than I," said Captain. "How deep is that wound?"

"Shallow. I drew blood. He could manage it easily."

"Not necessarily," said Lavian. "The arrangements he's made for this combination to work would preclude any easy recovery in combat, lest he damage himself in the process."

"So… he can't mend himself?" asked Annabelle.

"Any injuries we inflict shall remain. With the might be puts behind his attacks, any wounds he suffers will pain him greatly."

Annabelle looked at her opponent. "His joints are well protected, I do not think he'll allow another thrust through."

He'd changed his river's caution for boldness. Would he change again? "What say you?" she indicated to the Beoulve on their side.

"I…" he went unsteadily. The self-curing of his legs had not been quite successful. "Don't know."

Useless, just when they finally needed him.

"I've never seen him fight so aggressively. So, mayhap that is the answer. He remains wary of something." The strange light of the Stone? "Wants to end this quickly. He'll continue to be the aggressor."

"Turn his attacks aside and strike, Annabelle," said Captain. "You've a mind for how long his fury lasts. Whether near its end then strike just before he finishes to catch him off-guard."

"Yes, Captain," said Annabelle.

The count went dry and Annabelle went to fight her deciding duel.

* * *

It was breathtaking. To be in her position. She had to be the one to end this. He could not be counted on. She would not let him. This was her redemption. To make Her Highness's choice right.

Annabelle raised her defense and took the barrage of attacks Zalbaag sent her way. One-handed he struck now. Alicia's wound earlier taken its toll.

That did not make it simple as even with one hand he nearly tore her sword out of her two multiple times.

She kept pace. Counted the moments.

When his sword came wide she moved!

She braced her hands and gripped her sword's blade. His runeblade crashed into hers and she rushed forward. One hand for one swing which she loosed with all the fury she possessed.

He leapt backward but even still her attack found a slight cut on his armor. He would have to recover. Now was her chance!

With her sword above she quickly swung downwards. Zalbaag moved his sword to intercept but his angling was poor, his arm sluggish. She battered it down.

She could win!

She gripped the hilt tightly and made her thrust. Straight to his heart.

His left came forward, the same bleeding spot he'd taken Alicia's stab.

Pierce right in his weakness.

Her momentum slowed as she retreaded old wounds.

She would not be stopped like this!

She kept pushing forward even as the strength in her arms was sapped. This was all she could accomplish.

He hadn't been expecting such a rash maneuver and lost a step backwards. She put all she could to continue, but could not pierce through the whole of the man's wrist.

Yet still she did!

Sloppy, embarrassing, far cry from proper swordplay but desperate last gasp that she may be the victor here.

Pain, poor footing or whatever reason did make Zalbaag's counter slow. Only after she'd nearly pushed him into the piles of bodies did he finally strike back.

She moved her hand to block (as he had) but his sword tip came to rest under her throat with ease.

She glared at him.

"Yield," he demanded.

Not like this.

"Yield." His tip pricked blood from her neck.

"I concede this bout." All her vigor fled like cowards. Her sword, heavy as a log.

"I request a full rest once more."

He withdrew his blade, and she, hers. Dejected and defeated she slumped back to the rest. This was her limit.

"You did well, Annabelle," Captain complimented her.

It burned. Relying on him again.

"His left hand should be unusable, by now," said Annabelle. "His swordarm was slowing considerably too."

"I'll live up to your examples," he said and went into the fray.

* * *

Ramza had done all he could to mend his legs. But each step he took forward still shivered his legs with a dull pain.

This was their last chance. He had to make victory. They'd fought to hard to be defeated now. Ovelia still needed them.

Ramza readied his blade.

"Time has not yet set, Delita," said Zalbaag.

He gave no reply. All focus on finding the flaw he needed to exploit. The arm Lionsguard had wounded? The right, his only tool left? Mayhap his legs, beaten weary by the weight of his movements.

"You'll not dignify the scene with your face?"

There was no dignity on this field.

"Time is set," said Agrias. "Go."

Neither Beoulve made their move.

"Where did all that scorn of yours flee to?"

Words to distract, buy time. But Zalbaag did not pace. Was he so drained? Or was this some trap?

Waiting would undo all the work towards this. Ramza advanced.

Zalbaag shifted from a resting stand to his normal defensive stance. Blade set high, tip at opponent. From here he could use his blade of ruin to manage the opponent's offensive.

Standard Zalbaag.

In so many ways.

Ramza's eyes darted around the area. Taking in the terrain, the "ring" and Zalbaag's positioning. There were a few retreat points, should Ramza enact the plan forming in his mind. Taking into account Zalbaag's injuries and fighting style to this point, he narrowed it down even further. 'Twould still be, in the end, a gamble. Uncertainty laid along either path but one was a swift victory.

Ramza came close, stopped and jumped into the air. His legs burned like fire against the cold but he endured.

The brief pause at the apex…

And down he dove.

Had he a spear this would have been devastating but alas.

Zalbaag moved. This was no tightly grouped formation or narrow wall where a dragoon soared strong. Ramza's landing point could well miss.

He didn't.

He crashed down on his brother. Heel and sword striking in unison to shoulder and head.

He fell off as Zalbaag wearily stepped back. Sword, still in hand.

Ramza tripped on landing once more. His ankle twisted painfully but he forced himself up even as pain winced his movements.

Zalbaag staggered. Not defeated, not yet. Ramza needed to be swift. Take advantage of Zalbaag's mistake more.

Ramza had spent so many years watching his brother. In public, and in private. Those magnificent swordskills that Delita had never seen. How he fought knights, mages, exoctic pratictionars.

Dragoons.

All the habits and securities that had won Zalbaag duels were his undoing for this one.

Sword as cane, Ramza moved forward. Earth and snow below doing their utmost to slow his progress. Not now. He would not be deterred now.

Zalbaag collected himself. Adjusted his wayward helmet. Rose his sword—shaking. No blade of ruin to come from it. No furious charge.

This would be a simple exchange with one final sword strike.

Step by step he advanced. His sword back to its duty and legs alone to brace him.

He stopped. Distance enough for both to fully extend arm and sword and not quite connect.

One last breath. Deep. Cold.

Blood dripped from Zalbaag's wound.

Signal.

Attack.

No scream of valor or deadening screech as might punctuate a moment in the tales.

Two tired brothers swung.

Neither connected.

Ramza fell flat on his face

His legs gave way or the snow proved too slick.

Either case he slammed into the ground.

Helmet prevented his chin from splitting, but he tasted blood in his mouth.

The 'whoosh' of Zalbaag's blade went over him.

Ramza pushed himself up…

...only for a sword tip to be at his backside.

"This bout, this series is mine."

Ramza's blood ran colder than ice.

He'd lost.

Damned random chance he'd lost!

"No, not yet," he muttered.

"It is not fair but it is done," said Zalbaag and drilled the point in to let blood. "Accept your defeat like the noble you play at. All of you."

Ramza clenched his fists. He could see Zalbaag's wound pooling blood. So close! They were so close.

"And I'll be taking that helmet of yours, once the rest disarm."

"Hold!" Ovelia's voice cut through.

"We have sworn our oaths, Your Highness. It is a disrespect to all present and all the virtues of Ivalice to break them."

"No." Her voice was closer now. Ramza twisted his head to see the hems of her robes coming closer. "You've not won. Not yet."

* * *

She held a sword. For the first time in her life, Ovelia held a sword. It was heavy. Like a stack of tomes. And cold to the touch. She shook as she pointed it at Alma's brother.

"You are not your Great Lord Father, Highness," said Zalbaag.

He may not even be her father.

"Your hands were not meant to hold such a dire thing." He released his deathtouch on Ramza. With one hand he grasped his sword. It did not waver and it looked so much heavier than the one she held.

"It is I who decides my fate!" she screamed. "Not you."

"That is where you're wrong, Highness. Our purposes are made when we are born. Royal, Noble, common. Just as commons must toil in the fields, the nobility must lead."

"I would only be led to slaughter under your watch!"

"You are safe now, Highness. Have I not proven that by besting each or your guards?"

"Y-you ordered a girl killed. Why would I trust someone who did such a thing."

"Because you are more important, Your Highness," he said with such severity it nearly cut. "Your life is more important than any one girl of the commons. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Even we of the nobility—your Lionsguard—would sacrifice our lives to protect yours."

She never asked for this. She never wanted this. She learned, so much against this. "Did Saint Ajora not say that all should be equal under the heavens?"

"I live every day to the commandments sent by the Son of Gods, but our lives have limitations and practicalities to them."

An excuse. Her arms tired, the sword dropped.

Zalbaag ran at her and knocked the sword free from her hands. It stung. All the way up her arms, like she'd just grasped ice.

"Forgive me, Your Highness. But you would hurt yourself, as such."

What did he know of anything?

She slapped him.

His helmet protected him.

It hurt. Her hand throbbed. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of falling weak.

"Your Highness, stop this childish rebellion," he chided her. "This man sought to use you for his own ends. He cares naught for you, beyond what he can manipulate you towards."

Not anymore.

"No."

Zalbaag shook his head at her. "I tire of this hunt, and your refusals. Forgive me Highness, but this is for your safety."

He stepped closer.

"Stop it!" She shoved him.

She actually shoved him.

He fell backwards, too bewildered to do anything but gasp that a girl who could not weigh more than his armor overpowered him.

But he was not immune to the same fate that had stricken his younger brother.

He landed.

He did not get up.

No one said a word. Wind, and ragged breaths spread the only noise.

"W-we've proven victorious," Ovelia broke all their silence. Surprise, even to herself. "Uphold the oaths you swore!"

The knights that accompanied Zalbaag exchanged looks between each other. They wouldn't dare…

"The Stone," one of them said.

Yes, of course. Ovelia brought the auracite out once more. A curious little Stone… That voice. Yet she placed it on Zalbaag's prone form. "Do not dare follow us."

They offered no reply.

Ovelia and her escort reconvened around their sole remaining chocobo.

Her breath caught in her throat. Even with the air as it was she felt warm. It was almost… exhilarating, to stand for herself…

And so frightening.

He so easily could have slew her. At Eagrose, she'd have such fears consume her, regardless of truth.

The others were praising her, but her ears had gone numb to it. She ordered them forward, east (or thought she did).

Sore. She was so sore as they left.

* * *

Zalbaag awoke.

Every part of his body felt like it was being pecked by chocobos. THe feel of poison wrecked his veins and his innards were aflame with pain. An endless pounding bashed his head. Every breath was shallow and rapid and sometimes caught awkwardly and made it difficult to continue breathing. He was cold, warm and every swath in between.

"They have departed, Lord Zalbaag," said sturdy Geoffrey.

Eyes returned to light, ears splitting in pain. Zalbaag pushed himself up. To see the princess and her entourage escaping sight.

"What manner bested me?" Memory was a fuzzy thing over so many sleepless nights (and a new head injury besides).

"Her Highness did but shove you."

And he slipped on snow and fell. What a miserable end for this pursuit.

Though Delita had suffered much the same. God's whimsy's were beyond them.

Gods!

Zalbaag clutched the Stone.

Both of them.

A bloodied Libra in his left. Aries in his right.

Let some good come of this.

"We make for Bervenia." And mayhap a full night's rest for once.

"Ser, we must pursue," sid Bastion. "We cannot let oaths said to traitors bind us."

"Where are the Southern Sky?"

"Absent."

"And that worries me," Zalbaag admitted. "They attacked Bervenia in secret, slew a number of Templars, and yet, do not provide escort for Her Highness?"

His concerns waved through his men.

"We've seen no sign of the Templars sent in pursuit either."

"Mayhap they've engaged separately?"

"A possibility." Zalbaag deducing this passage as their intent was solely because he knew Delita would make for Limberry, and Marquis Elmdore. "A ruse, a distraction. They were fitted with enough supplies." Yet, an ambush? For all the pieces of this to come together, to be shattered by mere brigands?

"I must meet with my Lord Brother." Games and theory were much more his court.

"Yes, ser."

And take full responsibility for this disaster. May the Gods forgive him for letting the princess go to her doom.

* * *

The whole plan had gone awry.

Palamedes Esclabor watched through a spyglass as Wiegraf and the Ebon Eye ambushed the princess, Lionsguard and the Beoulve traitor. All the combatants were soon to be eliminated, and then Palmedes and his Templars disguised as Southern Sky could sweep down from the northern ridge and rescue Her Highness.

But Zalbaag Beoulve and a band of twenty-odd knights showed. As it was, not the worst circumstance. Getting North on South (even false) would be fantastic kindling. Yet, the Beoulve's vengeance was swift and he devastated his enemies before Palamedes's men had fully readied.

Then, the bright light from Wiegraf's Zodiac Stone froze everyone. Even at the distance he was, Palamedes was bathed in the awesome light.

For it to then stop.

Replaced with the bloodied and dying Wiegraf right next to him.

"White mage," Palamedes called and tended to his compatriot. "What was that?" he directed at the injured Templar.

The former rebel spat blood and laughs. "What a cruel trick, these stones have played on us." A grimace, a smile, either played out on his lips. His hand clutched a pebble—no, a depleted teleport stone. An emergency escape. The white mage among them came with her readied spell. "I must speak with the Grand Master at once."

"He'll be in Bervenia," Palamedes reassured him. "What happened, Wiegraf?"

"You did not hear?" A cruel chuckle. "Who to think, I carried a demon so close to my heart?"

Demon…? No, he could not possibly mean… "What madness takes hold of your senses, Wiegraf?"

"Feh, no madness but this world." All the clenched pain in Wiegraf's body faded. "I think the princess rode my old chocobo."

 _Huh._


	63. Chapter 62: A Cold and Unlonely Night

**Chapter 62: A Cold and Unlonely Night**

The fervor of their victory over Zalbaag ebbed as the snow grew harsher. That the Lionsguard did require their lady to dirty her hands once more… Ramza, for all his promises could not either…

With wounds only barely tended, they could not endure a cold and snowy night. They needed shelter.

Alicia had kept the map on her, and found the closest settlement. A bit ways south-straight. Just a tad above the Beddha Sandwaste.

A small hamlet. The houses were readied for winter winds and the roads had already been cleared. A few prying eyes lingered on their passing.

Small towns such as this, did not possess the inns of Bervenia, or Gariland. They would have to impose, take unfair rates.

Better loss in gil than health.

They approached the larger homes first. Those with stables and plenty of spare room.

Rejection. One after another.

Heavily armed knights without the crest of the Black Lion weren't wanted around these parts.

But greed could not hold out indefinitely and they found residence.

An old man, alone. A large enough house with a stable for their chocobo.

Only one room for the six of them.

Only one bed.

The owner, an old man named Ralph, claimed it belonged to his son, who left prior to winter.

It was a mess of a room. Still cold (though no longer tearing at flesh), too small for all at once. Not even enough blankets for all, and thin besides.

Ramza volunteered to stay on guard at night. Even then, their lodgings were barely large enough.

As he maintained his vigil his thoughts turned. With the wind whipping against the house he understood, just a little, how the commons lived.

The coldest night he'd ever had at the estate was but a moderate summer compared to the warmth these people had.

It was still not enough. But some small step, was, at least, progress.

Ramza took chair up close to the house's fireplace. Only one of two and it shook when he moved. One of the legs was stubby. The other chair wasn't much either. The table they paired with more the same.

Sad, and unfortunate.

But there was plenty of firewood stocked up. Already dry enough to be fuel. Mayhap he should chop a few logs to replace these later.

With little else to do but delve into his thoughts, Ramza took to maintaining his equipment. It'd been too long, even if he had replacements. Habits and practice needed to be upheld, even—especially in times like this.

Sword was fair enough. Some chips (from where?) but workable. His armors had been struck more than he realized. A few rents in dangerous locations and straps had come loose. He managed both as he could.

The faceguard on his helmet and latched oddly. A small pebble and lodged in there. Sloppy, to not notice it earlier. The front of the whole piece and also flattened a tad. A remembrance of his failure.

He could not stop a sigh.

He'd forced too much on Ovelia as it was, and now, the one thing he could hold confidence in, had failed.

His empty promises somehow rang more hollow.

Noise struck him. Someone exiting their bed. Ramza readied his sword for either case. Door swung open—not the one to his back.

Ralph's face came to view by candlelight. "I rather miss having a young lad ready to defend this old house."

"Yes…" Ramza dropped his guard.

"Just need a glass of water. Working in winter is thirsty business."

Ramza nodded as the man went over to his modest kitchen. "You staying up all night or switching with one of those dames?"

"The former."

"Well, I ain't yer father, so I don't have no place to be sayin' take care of yerself. But he'd probably say the same thing."

"Perhaps."

Ralph drank down his glass with remarkable speed. "Ye didn't kick me outta my home. That's a fair might better than most of those knightly types. Even paid me!"

"So it is."

Ralph wandered back over to his room. "Got enough coin to give this place a new roof. And walls. Thank that lady of the Lionsguard for me again, will ya?"

Ramza's blood froze. "I don't know what you're speaking of..."

"I saw that two-headed lion plenty during my service."

"You fought in the Fifty Years' War?"

"Anyone with hairs as gray as mine has. The King conscripted me himself!" He sounded oddly proud of that… "Winter like this got nothin' on Ordallia."

"So I've heard." Stories from brothers. From Lord Father. "The latter, I mean. I admit to being curious of the former."

Ralph turned around. "Reckon they don't teach you much of what the King did to the peasant rebellions, did they?"

Lessons were he dealt with them. No precise details. Precisely how they'd want it. Presenting the good King as a peasant-butchering villain was the last thing an exhausted country like Ivalice needed. "No specifics," Ramza answered.

"Well, I speak for my boys, and plenty of others. We got sick and tired of war taxes so got our pitchforks and scythes all ready to say 'no'. But then the King and Lionsguard sweep down and do to us what we do to wheat. Well, he rounds us up, all of us, and says—and I remember this clear as my wedding vows—and he says 'Ivalice Law declares that any traitors to the Crown be put to death. But before me I only see fine, upstanding young men ready to stand and fight for Ivalice's safety. Well then I say fight. But do not fight your fellows. Fight the enemy of every true and just Ivalician. To the East the Ordallian menace fights. They will come for your families. Your wives, your children. Point those implements at your true enemy, not those who would protect you from harm. So, my brave men, what say you? Shall you live for Ivalice?'"

That… seemed rather peculiar a thing to leave from the history texts. "I take it, it worked?"

"Death or life is an easy choice." Ralph shook his head. "Ordallian wasn't. Even if we farm boys didn't see much fighting."

"What do you mean?"

"We were sent into Zelmonia to farm. The proper knightly orders needed food, and plenty of it. Oh, sure, we learned to fight in earnest, did so against Ordallian skirmishers and then when the line broke. But we were still farmers first."

All the stories had been grand tales. Epics and glories. Nothing so… mundane as this. Helpful. "Thank you for your time, Ralph."

"And thanks for a fat sack of gil." He cackled. "Prolly more than the wages for all my years of service."

That was a truth Ramza knew. Yet still cut deep. "Consider it a form of reimbursement."

"Oh, I do." He cackled again and returned to his room.

The war had touched his mind, that much was sure. Yet, he did not seem so bad a fellow. Well, who was Ramza to judge? He'd kidnapped a princess.

A noise drew attention to the princess's room. Steps. One of the ladies? Or an intruder?

Ramza crept over, armor still discarded but weapon ready.

Door jarred open—"Ovelia," said Ramza, looking once more into the princess's pretty face. "What are…" he stopped himself. "Again?"

"You were quite noisy this time," she scolded him and stepped out. She closed the door behind her. "My sleep was thinner than that sheet."

"Sorry."

She stepped up closer to him. "No, I'd like to talk to you, as such."

"Of course." Side-by-side they went to the fireplace. Ramza offering her the chair he used whilst he took the weaker one.

Their hands, once more, linked.

"My hand's finally stopped shaking," she said.

He hadn't noticed, but he immediately knew why. "Mine did as well, first I recall ever holding a sword."

"I… I don't think my place is on the battlefield. Even, even, as a white mage, or such."

A few akademy mates had taken the same course. The mock battles and training had instilled a fear in their hearts they could not face.

"There is nothing wrong with that."

"But then, what use am I? Me, not my title…?"

That was not his place to answer. "You saved my life once more; as well as the Lionsguard. That remains true, no matter what."

"Plain luck, nothing more."

"Aye, but you did it. Where I could not."

Ovelia did not reply immediately, leaving Ramza to wonder if he'd done something wrong (and if so, what?), only for her to giggle. "Just, just a lucky girl, when with you."

It was some form of luck, for certain.

"Do you… do you think your brother, was as lucky?"

"Zalbaag?" Oh, oh! It finally dawned on him. What a clod he'd been to not realize it earlier! "I'm sure he survived his fall. They'd have given into pursuit, otherwise."

"That is, a relief." It was, clear as a summer's day.

She did not deserve this type of life. This cruel fate. Perhaps fleeing was the best option. Find some manner to smuggle Alma from Eagrose and leave.

"You're worried," she stated.

"We all are."

"No, not this." She moved their hands up. "You have taken my burdens well enough, please, at least, let me shoulder some of yours. It may be all that I can do."

No desire he possessed to burden her unnecessarily. But not sharing, was a burden of different matters. "You did not deserve this," he admitted.

"Your only worry is for me?"

"And Alma. Once more I thought of just fleeing. The strain of what we ask of you? I have seen it harm you enough. And more, I have seen my own failures come to pass, again and again. This will be all the more difficult, and even now—easy in compare—I have failed. Luck may safeguard us now, but even so, I… I do not want you to leave, Ovelia. Nor do I wish for anyone else here to continue to be in danger." He sighed. "Yet, I am the one who guided us to this impasse."

"I… I think that makes you a good person, Ramza," she reassured him. "You still worry, about if this is right, what more you can do."

"It is good to hear, but nothing of substance."

"I—we—would not have come this far if you lacked substance. Who else would admit to me, what you did? Worry as you have? None. I have said this to you before. So, please, this time let it set."

She was right. She was completely right. "So you have. And I've been a fool to forget that." _Head injuries aside._ "I'll become—no, I'll continue to be a knight worthy of _you_."

His words left them both without.

Did he just imply…?

She took his words the same and slipped her fingers away. She obscured her face, colored red not by firelight.

He was far overstepping his reaches.

But then, what else, had they been?

These moments. These feelings that welled within that made him both lightheaded and content.

They'd not addressed the issue directly.

That was how they both learned. He necessities and alliances of station. Yet neither were learned in the particularities.

Most of all: He'd resolved never again to lie to her.

"And I mean it." Every form of courage swelled inside him to say it. War was the less fearsome front. Less brave to even face Zalbaag's swordplay. "Truly do, do I solemnly vow." He'd ran forward with confusion long enough. Even if they moved forward with speed that made lightning envious. He cared for Ovelia. The fight made it all the clearer: Grasp what happiness he may.

Ovelia came around. She seemed, almost on the verge of tears? This had affected her far more than he'd even tried to understand. "Tell it to me, in terms simple and plain."

He wanted to pull her close and let that be his answer. He set his hands on her shoulders—she was trembling—cold. "Ovelia, I have not felt this way about anyone else in my life. My chest tightens, my stomach soars like wings when I am near you. Every moment I spend I want to see you smile—to see you happy and cheerful." Her face reddened moreso with his words, and he felt his own mirror hers. "I have seen your bravery put mine to shame."

"I am no brave girl."

"When, when my brothers, they acted in a way I could not support, I turned away and ran. Abandoned all responsibility, all the connections I'd made. You are braver than I. You have stood for more than I with naught but your resolve. I could only act as I do because I have fought, and learned. But you, no matter the circumstances, I have seen you rise. I have borne witness. Even with all the trials imposed upon you, you've held. You inspire me, Ovelia."

"I inspire you?"

He'd been bemoaning his own failures and yet, Ovelia had faced so much more the dire circumstances. "Yes, you have. Yes, you do."

"You have too much faith in me."

"Did I not just repeat those same feelings?" he said. "And you told me, again, what the truth was. You are brave—you are kind. You are trusting, and honest. Dark times surround us but you have been a beacon of light to me."

"Thank you, Ramza." She placed her hands on his still on her shoulders. "It is comforting, to hear that. So little time has passed, yet, I can no longer think of life without us, together. To not have you by my side. To not have these... these talks at night. These warm and soft comforts and reassurances."

"Ovelia I… I will be forthright and clear, as you deserve." He swallowed. He was doing this. He was doing it because he felt this way. "Ovelia, the adoration, the words, to describe what fuels the fire of the passions I have, is simple. The simplest but deepest emotion one can feel. Love."

One word and they both shook.

"I know love. Towards my parents. Once towards my lord brothers. Towards my darling sister Alma. That graceful feeling that you'd do anything to see them smile and happy 'til their ends. That you'd sacrifice anything, for them. Live up to their examples."

"Ramza…"

"Yet that now, does not convey the depths of what now I hold for you. I am in love with you, Ovelia."

Every breath he took was in new light. He'd said it.

"Oh, Ramza…" she slowly moved forward and gifted him a hug.

He reciprocated. If only this moment could wash away all their cares.

"I don't know love, like you do. My parents? My family? I don't know if this is love but it's a feeling I never want to forget. One I pray continues forever. Every heartbeat, every flush of warmth and every smile."

"'Til you do, for true or not, I will remain. Should you the latter, I will accept your life's choice, as someone who would love to see you in love."

"You would accept, that, mayhap, I do not? That circumstances may yet reject us?"

"Love, I think, is putting the happiness of your other before your own, and the combined above both. I would see us happy, and failing that, I would see you happy at my own expense."

She lightly chuckled at that. "I have never laughed, as much as I do, with you. I would love, to love you Ramza. But I just..."

Love did not factor into the marriages of nobility. Her concerns, her speculations for such a pairing, were practical, simple. To the benefit of both. Befreit of options. To marry, because she yearned for it. Or not to! That, that was the Ovelia he'd fight for. One who could make her choice rather than have it fostered upon her, through political functioning, or desperate gamble, or slim hope.

"I will do my utmost, to ensure that."

"And I will live up to that trust. As, as a brave girl." She pulled away from their close embrace, but their arms still laid draped. "Ramza, I may love you. All the words in tomes I've read. What you've said to me. They are so close, so similar to what buds within my chest. Yet… I only wish it were so clear for me, as it was you."

"It takes time. It's only become so obvious to me, with time. I said I would wait and I stand by that vow."

"That day our hands first met, I never thought it would lead to this."

 _Hands._

Finally, then, did it fall into place. The answer he saw had already been given to him. A vile, cruel way that may yet be what he wanted.

Become King.

That thought scared him more than anything.

Evidently it played on his face. "What's wrong," Ovelia asked. "Was that so mistaken of me to say?"

"I…" he stammered. Painful enough to bring Folmarv's accusation the first time. Now, now that he may well agree? "I, I have come to a realization," he slowly said, "I may have found the solution, to our situation. One that would require only so minimum the disruption, of guilty alone."

"That is?" her eyes were alight with curiosity—hope.

The light of that hope burned. "Do, as Grand Master Folmarv accused of me. Become King." It sickened him to say it. To use her for his own benefit like this. Even if she was caught in its wake—for himself, over her. All his talk of love, and this idea slipped in?

Her grip slackened.

She was strong. He could lay all the benefits, all the well-reasoned acts before her. Trust her. "You have, a distinct advantage over Prince Ornius, Ovelia. You are of marriageable age." Treating her like some trade commodity. "Who knows if the Prince inherited his Lord Father's ill health. But you, you have grown strong. Hand given, to a Beoulve son? Dycedarg would turn on the Queen, on the Duke, for the Beoulve crowned king. No war, but deposing a mad queen. And on that throne of us, we could reveal his plottings. Reveal the Church's. Ensure a better Ivalice for all." He slumped—all his vigor drained with lofty promises. The ones he exchanged with Delita yet without want for a war.

"That… would be the wise… course, wouldn't it?" she meekly answered. "A mindful, masterful, brilliant plan." Her hands tightened on his shoulders. "When you nearly died protecting me at the Falls… was that wise? Turning against the church, was that wise? I don't need a brilliant man— I just need you."

The look of affection she gave him forced him to bring her in so close so deep that he worried he hurt her. "I am wise," he said, and before she could reply, "for falling in love with a girl like you." He separated their touch. He gazed deeply into her eyes. Firelight making them dance before him. "Ovelia," he tempered his courage, "may I… may I kiss you?"

Without hesitation, without concern for stature or the future:

Ovelia pressed her lips to his.

They kissed.

* * *

 **AN: I'm so bad at romance...**


	64. Chapter 63: Forthwith

**Chapter 63: Forthwith**

Ramza left Ralph's abode to chop some extra firewood for their host when morning broke. The cold air was a bold refreshment after the heated events of the night. Though as the path went long the positive outlook began to slid. The nearby trees in the hamlet were reserved for emergency uses, so Ramza had to go far afield to where Ralph directed.

Along the way, he encountered others. Villagers, those who stared and gossiped. Men in thick cloth (furs were beyond them) with well-damaged axes. Ralph's loan, too, had itself worn down much in use. And to think, Ramza was so dire about his own equipment. This axe may well have been from Ralph's youth.

Ramza and the rest began cutting up the designated trees. A number of logs were all ready to be chopped, and Ramza was brusquely directed towards them.

The old axe did not chop well, as to be expected. Such conditions did not bother the other axemen much (save for snickers directed at him).

There was always more than one way to cut a log.

Ramza set aside the ax (wrapped in a cloth so it did not accumulate frost) and focused on the log.

Certain tests were required before one was qualified to use a skillset in battle. Mages needed an understanding of chemistry and one spell. Knights needed to be sure-footed in their armors and shatter a testing iron. Monks expanded on the latter, and required smashing a block of wood with a bare fist.

Ramza was confident enough with his martial arts that he could split it. A log was close enough.

He studied his object (catching attention from the others). It was still damp, but he had a good run of the grain. He could do this.

It was a rare chance to take his time and maintain the correct breathing as he prepared. Martial spirit focused—he struck!

The crack was thunder in the woods as the log split.

His hand was a bit sore, but it was the faster option. He should have brought his gauntlets, in hindsight.

He continued his gathering to the japes and cheers of the other men. All of them eventually met their quotas and set back.

This time they actually talked back to him. Nothing in particular, but after so many matters of utmost severity, it was a welcome relief.

Ramza replenished Ralph's stock outside and checked in on their chocobo. No local greens, so they had to dip into their limited stock. They'd need to replenish soon. No grazing in this weather.

He stepped back inside. Alicia had prepared a meal for them from their supplies and Ralph was already indulging like it was the first meal he'd ever had.

Or perhaps the first in days. He was a thin man, little in the pantry. Plenty of wood but…

Ovelia occupied the other chair. The Lionsguard taking their meals standing up

It was still a welcome sight. A time without troubles was more refreshing than the air.

When the morning meal was finished, the princess and her escorts set off. Towards Limberry.

* * *

Wiegraf slumped in the chair of the current office of the Knights Templar's Grand Master. The man himself eyed the exhausted Officer, while Palamedes stood at attention to the side with Meliadoul and Linnett.

"Failure is an understandable part of life," said Folmarv. "But this lack of success? I do not understand. So, enlighten me. Paint sharp the picture of the princess's escape and Zalbaag returning before you with the Stone entrusted to your hands."

Wiegraf grunted at the priorities. His body was nearer to death than he'd ever suffered in the war and movements now sent shivers of pain throughout his body. Zalbaag had been so close, in the field and here, yet he had been left in peace.

"He saw through your distractions and engaged the force the Ebon Eye lent us. They'll be painfully sore about losing a hundred men like that."

"The Stone?"

"Do you still clutch yours, close to your heart?"

"Answer."

Wiegraf bent forward. "I. Heard. A. Voice."

Meliadoul shifted uncomfortably at the notion. She recognized that clawing at the mind. Seeking, prying for any crack to leak inside and expand.

"Say it clear."

"The Stones, you fool," Wiegraf spat. "The Lucavi are inside the Stones! They are as holy an artefact as my fingernail!"

"You forget your place, ser!" Linnett chided him.

"I know _precisely_ where I am. In a house of lies and false promises. Tell me, _Grand Master_ , does it whisper to you? Of knowledge unmatched and power unrivaled? Or mayhap there is no you, anymore. But a shell of flesh for the demon within."

"My lord father is no demon," Meliadoul leapt to his defense. Her hand barely restrained from the draw. "You will rescind your slander at once."

Wiegraf stood up on unsteady legs. "I've no yearning to be under a Ivalice cowed by the yoke of Lucavi. Endorse your delusions girl, I'll entertain them, and this farce of Church's change no longer."

She well and obliged with her shining knight's sword.

He was tired. So tired. One last thought crossed his mind:

 _Meliadoul I'm coming._

"Hold, daughter."

"I'd no intent of obliging the sorry wart's deathwish. But I will not stand here whilst he spits in our faces. He claims he'd see no Ivalice brought low by demons yet finds swiftest excuse to escape their blight."

"Ha!" Wiegraf barked. "You are convinced I am but a coward, is that it?"

"Word that you fought for Ivalice where no man was born being master becomes lies now that I see your remorse. Where has the backbone that shook the White Lion gone?"

"Torn asunder by Templar lies." He shook his head. "Placating and 'it will come' works for only so long. Where do I see the promised land on this earth? Nowhere. I have princess's royal neck before me and am told I cannot cut it."

"Her neck is not royal," said Folmarv.

That caught Wiegraf off-guard and he bellowed, "What?"

"That girl's blood runs as common as yours. She is a replacement, set up by the Council of Nobles to oust Queen Louveria from power."

A fake? He'd had suspicions about the parentage of the boy prince, but the princess's specifics were from before Wiegraf's ventures into higher institutions.

"So, shall the Church rule by making her their puppet instead?"

"There is no need for a king, or queen, in our Ivalice," said Folmarv, as he stood from his seat. "Nor is there a place for demons on this earth." He pulled out the Zodiac Stone of Leo. "My hands find their way to this thing without my knowing. Like strings on a puppet. No more." He flippantly tossed it on the desk. "Wiegraf, Meliadoul, we bring this to the High Confessor at once."

"My Lord this will disrupt the plan in place significantly!" pleaded Linnett.

"Lucavi would yet do worse."

"What of the others?"

Folmarv glanced over the other Templar. "We've Leo, Aries and Sagittarius with us. We shall rendezvous with Cletienne upon the way. Loffrey should be in Eagrose still. Libra and Gemini are beyond us at this moment."

"Whom do they belong?" asked Wiegraf.

"Zalbaag and Messam."

Wiegraf scowled in disgust. "Royals may go, but the wretched nobility would stay."

"Ivalice needs men capable of leading her. Zalbaag and Massam would much grant us fair treatment when our move is made. They are popular, and devout."

Political maneuvering at its finest.

"You may mislike it all you will, Wiegraf. Plans are always subject to change." He glanced down at the Stone.

That they were…

* * *

"Lord Brother," said Zalbaag as Dycedarg entered into his office in Lesalia. "It is good to see you once more."

"You as well, Zalbaag." He gave a shallow nod and took seat across from him. "Duke Larg has granted me this chance before our audience with Her Majesty. Pray, tell me brother, have the Gods forsaken House Beoulve?"

Zalbaag hung his head in shame. "Nay, but I fear I have abandoned them. I could not rescue Her Highness, and now, Alma has gone missing." A sigh escaped his lips. "Lord Father's passing, the Corpse Brigade, Fort Ziekden and Ramza's disappearance. I have shamed our great House."

"Your service is incomparable, Zalbaag. I have made as many mistakes as you while earning honors ten-fold your lesser. Hold your head high, brother. House Beoulve—I need you. As does Duke Larg, and Her Majesty."

It was a ray of relief to hear his Lord Brother speak those words. "I must still atone for these failures."

"Seek forgiveness when they can give it. When Her Highness is brought safely home. When Alma is found. When Ramza returns."

"Should Her Majesty will it."

"Should Her Majesty will it."

Zalbaag spent the rest of their time detailing his pursuits of both the princess, and Alma's disappearance.

Dycedarg kept his calm face even as he described how Zalbaag abandoned the defense of Lesalia to embrace Alma's whims regarding the princess, and Ramza. Yet her fancy had proven true, and Her Highness was in danger. Lies, of the dangers of Eagrose, and misleading Lionsguard. The time spent in Bervenia, returning, only to find the Southern Sky and secreted away Her Highness. Then his shameful defeat and sworn oath to no longer pursue the traitorous Lionsguard.

He returned the Aries stone to Bervenia (excluding informing Dycedarg of that), and made way back to Lesalia.

Only to not be met with a sister.

None of their sister's friends in the akademy knew of her whereabouts, and the knights who'd spoken with her last had left the ranks as well. Perhaps she employed the two as bodyguards, but to what end?

Going over the information took enough time that the brothers were summoned before the Queen.

Now, with all the upheaval, Her Majesty had called her closest advisors. Her Lord Brother, Duke Larg. His strategist, Dycedarg Beoulve. And the Commander of the Order of the Northern Sky, Zalbaag Beoulve. They were to report in full compliance the kidnapping of Her Highness.

Firstly they rendezvoused with Duke Larg. The situation had given his face a few wrinkles, and dyed a few hairs gray from his shining blonde bowl-cut. His beard remained free of such worries, immaculately combed, as well. His formal purple robes were spotless as ever. But his leg bothered him more than usual. His Grave leaned more on his right-hand cane more than Zalbaag's past remembrance.

He was tired.

They all were.

Duke Larg was shown in first through the giant double-doors leading to the throne room.

"Your Majesty, may I present, His Grace Duke Bestrald Larg, liege-lord of Gallion," the herald gave address for Her Majesty's own kin.

Dycedarg followed in. "Your Majesty, may I present, His Excellency Count Dycedarg Beoulve, of House Beoulve."

Then, finally, Zalbaag. "Your Majesty, may I present, His Commandership, Lord Zalbaag Beoulve, Lord Commander of the Knightly Order of the Northern Sky."

He took place, kneeling, on the thick red carpet beneath his feet. Pillars lined the sides and Lionsguard, still as statues, lined them. Clad in diamond—ready to defend Her Majesty at the slightest provocation. Only herald else bore witness. Not a noble upon the finery in the throne room. Enough wealth to feed the city for a year.

Sitting on the throne—sole and lone—was Her Majesty Queen Louveria Atkascha. She defied the surroundings. The splendor around her. A tiara, large, platinum, sat atop her golden long hair. A splendid golden dress matched it, but with a fur-lined cloak draping down from her shoulders. She graced them a welcoming look before settling in a stone-faced Queen.

"It gladdens our heart to see our three most loyal confidants once more."

Zalbaag's skin wrinkled at her out-of-place pluralege.

"You men of courage and valor will do well to assuage these uneasy words that have come to our attention."

"To our utmost, Your Majesty," answered Duke Larg.

She gifted him a slight smile. "We hear that our darling niece Ovelia has become center of attention."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"We were told that she was to be made safe within the fastness of Eagrose. What has changed?" She settled her gaze upon Zalbaag. "Speak, Lord Commander Beoulve."

"Her Highness has been dieted on lies spread from a man shrouding himself in anonymity. Yet, I have discerned that he falls within Duke Goltanna's camp, as a knight of the Order of the Southern Sky."

"It is a sorry tale, that Duke Goltanna does not give the due respect we are righted. Has Ivalice not returned to its course under our guiding hand this past year? His Royal Highness will be the lighthouse keeping us safe in the storms ahead. To learn, that Duke Goltanna may yet tear Ivalice in twain for his own ambitions brings a heavy grief upon my heart."

She closed her eyes to ruminate on the unfortunate things that put Ivalice's future in peril.

"Count Beoulve," she addressed Dycedarg. "You have advised our dear brother greatly over the years. I would ask that keen mind to offer its wisdom to the Throne."

"As you will, Your Majesty," Dycedarg answered. "The Order of the Northern Sky must return to full combat readiness in preparation for any advances made by the Order of the Southern Sky. If they were to strike with enough force swiftly enough, they would even overrun the defenses of Lesalia."

"You consider our walls so thin?"

"They have subverted Her Highness with lies and drawn her successfully into their midst. They are armed and ready to attack, of that I have no doubt."

She nodded so slightly at his planning. "What more, then, would you suggest?"

"To wait, Your Majesty. If Duke Goltanna makes bold his claim, then we can encourage a diplomatic resolution to his betrayal. Should he put his knights to war, our efforts would be vindicated, and he, portrayed as a warmonger. Strengthen ties with those who would support the rightful throne over potential heir."

"You assert wisdom, Lord Beoulve. We shall parcel careful thought on what you have said." She swayed her head towards the Duke. "Duke Larg. As alliances are the word, how then, do the loyal banners stand?"

"Grand Duke Barrington sends his regards and regrets for not responding in person," said Duke Larg. "He has assured me that Fovoham stands with Lesalia and Gallione. The might of his forges will work for Ivalice once more. All of the lesser nobility know their loyalties lie with the rightful heir. We shall have no disturbance from within."

Yet, a dissenting voice had been Delita's confidant. Such a thing was better for Dycedarg to discern yet…

"We have been informed that the monastery our niece was secluded to has been the site of a new incident?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. It is unclear, what, precisely has befallen Orbonne Monastery, south of Dorter Trade City. Our investigations in alliance with the Holy Office of the Inquisition have only deduced that a powerful magick tore the building asunder. Our current lead is that the Southern Sky perpetrated this act to cover their mistake earlier."

"Even men of the cloth are not beyond the reach of such cruelties?" Her Majesty shuddered in defiance of room's warmth. "Tragic. We shall send Royal Missive to the High Confessor of our condolences."

"With respect, Your Majesty, there may be no such need."

"Your meaning?" Larg indicated over to Dycedarg. "Speak, Lord Beoulve."

"I have been informed, solely due to my proximity and nothing more, that the High Confessor intends a visit to the Royal Capital within the month."

Zalbaag barely contained himself at the news. The most holy man in Ivalice, returning? Things had become so clear after their last confession. Mayhap another would rid his mind of worry.

"We shall do your utmost to give His Holiness the respect he is due."

"Your Majesty, if I do not overstep my bounds, I request that we detain known Duke Goltanna loyalists and associates. For the High Confessor's safety. They have already shown their reach for disregarding the Church's neutrality. They may see his visit as favoring His Highness over Her Highness in the matter of succession. As they continue to delude themselves that His Royal Highness is not the proper heir."

Her Majesty lightly shook her head. "Our city has only now stabilized after the prior unrest. To detain so many misled nobles would draw us back into such an unfortunate quagmire. Lord Commander Beoulve, are your knights in condition to safeguard the city, as needed?"

 _No._ "Yes, Your Majesty. With additional aid provided by Count Beoulve and the Knights Templar we can ensure His Holiness has a unperturbed visit."

"See then, that it is done," she commanded. "If it does not impede the mobilization of the Northern Sky."

"I would be able to maneuver Order units as precaution to safeguard the entourage of His Holiness. Though Lesalia will become a bastion of sanctity, we cannot fully wall aside every prying eye from watching the roads. Doubtless, spies will notice this."

"Unfortunate. How would Duke Goltanna's faction respond to this?"

"Our current reports indicate no significant activity among the ranks of the Order of the Southern Sky. He will not be able to marshal his forces before we do."

"Count Beoulve, what of his own allies?"

Dycedarg answered, "Count Cidolfus Orlandeau will remain by His Grace's side, between the two men sways the full armied nobles among the western reaches. With the aid of Marquis Messam Elmdore de Limberry, all match their banners to his cause."

"Duke Larg, is there any method to split their ranks and bring these wayward names to our cause?"

'Twas a difficult thing to believe the Thunder God was party to kidnappings and warmongering. The man had been Lord Father's staunchest ally in negotiations with Ordallia.

"Marquis Elmdore has recently made good his promise on settlements in thanks for his successful retrieval from the Corpse Brigade. He is open to fair and honest negotiation. Count Orlandeau, is a true knight. He will not betray the man he's sworn his sword to easily."

"Then it is Duke Goltanna alone who would be the impediment." Her Majesty craned her head backwards. "We address the three of you in equal esteem. Put an end to his scheming. Return Princess Ovelia to safety. Convince Marquis Elmdore and Count Orlandeau if it is within your power, but do not risk overmuch. We are your Queen and this is our command. End this threat to the safety of Ivalice and its peoples."

 _To war?_

Zalbaag took a deep breath. This was his duty to abide by. "Yes, Your Majesty," he replied.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"You are dismissed," the herald told them.

The three men departed. The duty placed on their shoulders making every step heavy.

The doors closed. The eye of the Queen was gone. No dozen Lionsguard ready to run them through should they express outrage.

To war. Their Queen was commanding them to war. Zalbaag despised turning blade against his countrymen. But Duke Goltanna, his men, like so many before had made their stand. He had betrayed the oaths to Crown and Ivalice for his own power. He was no longer a man of Ivalice. Just another rebel to be put down, like the Corpse Brigade.

"Your Grace, Your Excellency, with your word I will send word to ready our forces."

"Yes, Zalbaag," answered Dycedarg. "Firstmost, make certain the time it would take to ready our forces and those of the Southern Sky."

"A week for our own. Two, perhaps even three for the Southern Sky to prepare."

"Such an advantage we hold," said His Grace. "It seems the Black Lion has not trimmed his claws recently."

Zalbaag nodded. "The Princess will make for Limberry. One chocobo for a half-dozen. A week, sometime after now, she will arrive. Another week for Duke Goltanna or Count Orlandeau to heed his missive and her arrival, then once more a week for Southern Sky to ready themselves."

"Confident, this man of the Southern Sky heads towards the Marquis, over his liege-lord?"

Again, Zalbaag nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. The man did not seek entrance east through Besselat, instead circling north. When My pursuit was stopped, his direction was towards Limberry, rather than deeper in Zeltennia.

Duke Larg frowned at the news. "Ill-timed, then, my advice that Marquis Elmdore might see reason. You've idea why he is set upon the Marquis?"

Zalbaag shifted uneasily. "Yes, Your Grace. Like the Corpse Brigade, the man puts blame on the nobility for not surrendering to his every whim. He has lost, because of necessary acts accomplished and now seeks ill-aimed vengeance."

The Duke nodded his head with every sentence. "You seem familiar with this man."

"He was a former servant of House Beoulve: Delita Heiral."

"Delita?" Dycedarg uncharacteristically sputtered. He wore concern heavy on his face. To Zalbaag, the why was clear. Delita might know where Ramza and Alma had gone. "You are certain of this?"

He'd not seen his face, yet the evidence was plain. "He made claim as such. Knew, what only Delita could." Had he? "Yes, I am confident it was Delita."

"Unexpected. But, a commons born is commons skilled. He may have troubled us, but will accomplish little. The traitors in the ranks of the Lionsguard held the bulk of combat fighting, did they not?"

"They did."

"Then deception and lies his only recourse. We've no fear of a man who fears the truth. Go, Zalbaag, ready the Northern Sky for war."

"Yes, Lord Brother."

* * *

Dycedarg watched Zalbaag depart. The information his brother now volunteered (having left it out in the earlier recounting) disturbed him greatly. Gaffgarion's report of the youth without a helmet matched the description of Delita.

As well as the hundreds of thousands of commons who shared his dirt features.

With the Fell Knight missing, and presumed dead, there was no refinement.

Delita Heiral was dead.

The girl had admitted that much during her stay. She knew not Ramza's whereabouts, but Delita had been incinerated at the explosion of Ziekden Fortress with his sister. She would not have lied.

Had he lived? Or mayhap another of their little order squirmed.

Even, Ramza. The boy had inherited too many of Lord Father's troublesome habits. Still, there was no particular reason to assume their erstwhile brother had gone so astray.

Yet, the second knight Gaffgarion mentioned, was the one Zalbaag clashed with. Delita, if he was sighted knight, had met a watery end.

"Does it trouble you so?" asked Duke Larg, ejecting Dycedarg from his thoughts.

"House Beoulve has loyally served since its founding. As have all who sworn their service. This fault may yet lie upon my head. I beseech forgiveness, Your Grace."

"These matters have grown out of hand, Dycedarg. See fit to put an end to them."

"I shall endeavor to do so at once, Your Grace."

"Good. I will handle our diplomatic channels. We may yet be able this without a war."

Victory was theirs for certain, but lost gil to wages was an unfortunate necessity should it come to that. "For Ivalice."

"For Ivalice."

* * *

It should not have taken a week for the Princess's entourage to make their way to the gates of Limberry Castle, yet at every turn their path was impeded. Marching in snow, on oft-used roads and recovering for days in the one city they entered to stave off illness. Cloaks, in tatters, barely able to ward off winter's winds. Wildlife, desperate for hunting or disturbed by accident. Gil dwindled as food did.

It should not have taken a week and it nearly took two.

Yet now, the white walls of Castle Limberry were before the tired and exhausted detail. It was warmer, whether by midday sun or some clause in Limberry's native winds. Welcome.

May they be welcome at the Castle.

The waters of the moat seemed to shine as they approached. Knights on duty for the closed gates. Archers, and mages manned the battlements.

"Halt," ordered a knight from above, a helmet with a fine tuft of plumage sticking out. "Speak now your names and be quick of it."

He could not be himself here, not yet. "I am Delita Heiral, knight in service of the Crown. My companions and I have journeyed far to seek audience with His Excellency Marquis Messam Elmdore de Limberry. My name, and story, would be of interest to His Excellency, so I beseech you bring it to him."

"Many names are of interest to His Excellency," the guardsman shouted back down. "But yours is one I know he is familiar with." Fortune took their side for once. "I shall relay your message to the Marquis but it is he who shall decide your admittance, or lack. Do not stray from the sight of our watchman, and do not take any action that could be mistaken as hostile."

Fair enough terms. Her Highness and Lionsguard gave their confidence to the understanding. "We accept the terms."

"Very good."

* * *

 **AN: Finally, Limberry. Thanks for those reviews.**


	65. Chapter 64: Affairs in Order

**Chapter 64: Affairs in Order**

Messam once more sat enraptured with the shining Stone of Gemini clasped in his hands. Ever facet, every edge and been engraved into his mind. His heart—his body. Stricken blind he would still find this Stone. As he did, in sleepless nights. Sometimes he woke with it once more safeguarded against his chest. A sign from Saint Ajora.

A soft rapping at the door to his private study broke his stupor. "Your Excellency," Captain Roberts's voice came through. "You've a man claiming himself Delita Heiral requesting your time."

Heiral? Curious. Curious indeed that a squire of the Northern Sky made such a trek. "Does he confess what for?"

"Nay, Excellency. He considers it a matter of import, but such is anything to a commons."

That it was. "Is there more?"

"He's accompanied by five companions. All women. Four look to be knights, while the fifth is a lady of stature. Enough that she is atop their only chocobo."

The unit Heiral belonged to only consisted of three women. Though time might have bolstered their numbers.

"Do they ready bows?" 'Twas not beyond Dycedarg Beoulve to send an assassin. Heiral, or any of his compatriots, would make an excellent choice.

"It does not seem so. The cloaks they were are too battered to hide the length of bows, or crossbows. Hands set free contained nothing either."

"Magicks perhaps." He would not go without proper protection. "Captain Roberts, your opinion?"

"He is of the Northern Order. He is not to be trusted."

"The I trust your aim is the surest. I shall meet with them from atop the gates."

"Stay safe, Excellency."

Messam sequestered Gemini into his surcoat and exited the study. He made arrangements with his white mages for protect and shell, before making sure Celia and Lettie were prepared for any other eventualities.

He stepped free from the warmed halls and set about the top of his walls. Samurai and knights in his service bowing their obedience as he strode to the top and looked down.

At a face that was most certainly not Delita Heiral.

"It is a pleasure to see you in well health, Your Excellency," said Ramza Beoulve.

If this was some ploy by Dycedarg it was simply too bold. To send his half-blood brother? Ludicrous. If the boy was beholden to brother's will a simple stab a year ago would have accomplished more with lesser risk.

"What matters have you brought before the gates of Limberry, 'Heiral'?"

"A request, no—a plea for your assistance."

"Your cloak turns from the White Lion then." Reports of the Beoulve's unit had ceased not a month after Messam's imprisonment. Heiral and Thadalfus among them. "For what reason?"

Beoulve shifted. He did not quite look. But the identity of the lady riding astride was surely the case. Mayhap his younger sister? The white mage's robe cowled her face but she seemed to be the proper age.

"I have learned the deplorable depths by which the Order of the Northern Sky involves itself in. I could no longer pledge my sword to a dishonorable cause. I came, seeking you, knowing you a man of virtue and honor—to noble and commons alike. I beseech you, on the name of my family, I intend no harm."

Guardsmen misliked it. The name of a commons was nothing (much as Messam tried to instill against it). Yet, they were not aware this was a Beoulve oath.

Even if Beoulve was the enemy.

There would be full shouting then.

Still, this offer was curious enough to hear. If the boy had learned of Dycedarg's involvement in the Corpse Brigade's ambush he could be a valuable ally.

"You will disarm. The lot of you. Should you agree, we will meet in my office within. Privatly."

His guards shook confused. An unfortunate necessity. He was confident he could handle six unarmed assailants, even if they retaining the training of a monk.

Beoulve did not respond firstly. Looking at the mounted lady. Her slight nod embolden his answer. "Your terms, are acceptable. Thank you, Your Excellency."

"Open the gates!" Messam ordered firstly. Thoughts fell then, _He is not the one in command._

His soldiers moved to their tasks, the gates, both outer and inner were opened. Beoulve and his companions were led inside and escorted by a force twice their number.

Messam set back as well. His soldiers would delay the visitors long enough for him to settle comfortably within the office.

Short of his bedroom, it remained the warmest room in the building. He took his place at the head of the long table.

Beoulve was shown in after. The dames had not shed their shoddy cloaks. The high lady had not pulled back her hood.

Messam affixed the Beoulve a glare at the lack of decorum.

"Your Highness Princess Ovelia Atkascha may I present to you His Excellency Marquis Messam Elmdore de Limberry, liege-lord of Limberry."

His breath held a second. His body did not even last that long.

In his haste to kneel he knocked his chair aside. "Your Highness," he gasped.

She pulled back her hood. He'd never seen the princess in person, few had, but each liege-lord had known the precise details of Her Highness's appearance and she fit them all.

"Rise, Marquis Elmdore." He did. "My companions and I extend our deepest gratitude for the refuge you have shown us."

The knights removed their shrouds. Emblems of the two-headed lion on each of them. Lionsguard.

"Your Excellency Marquis Messam Elmdore de Limberry, liege-lord of Limmberry may I present to you…"

"...Lady Agrias Oaks, Captain of the Lionsguard protecting Her Highness Princess Ovelia…" A steadfast dame. Her posture and resolute face exuded strength and confidence.

"...Dame Alicia Bertana, of the Lionsguard…" Younger than her Captain. A face weary, but lively. She was not the fount of strength of her leader but she stood at a rapt attention.

"...Dame Lavian Alance, of the Lionsguard…" Harder to read. She was first behind her Captain to stand at rapt attention but her eyes had a much different look. Seeking, searching for something.

"...Dame Annabelle Jaane, of the Lionsguard." Young, perhaps no more than a summer more than Her Highness. Eager and quick, but unsteady. Nevertheless she looked a dame of boldness and passion.

Her Highness took seat. Marquis followed. Lionsguard took post at doors and behind their lady. Beoulve sat last.

"I would admit," said Messam, "this is quite lastly a course I could have foresaw."

Beoulve? Her Highness? The princess had disappeared into rumor and myth for the past month.

"Our journey has been met with great difficulty," said Her Highness.

"I could scarce imagine, if it would not trouble you so, please bestow upon me the story of how you have come to Limberry?"

Her Highness took look at Beoulve, and the boy nodded, stood tall. "As you will, Your Excellency."

His tale started close and familiar: With the encounter at the Sand Rat's Stietch. From there, his command engaged in the final operations against the Corpse Brigade. In the last battle at Ziekden Fortress, Heiral and Thadalfus lost their lives. (Unfortunate, but that was war.)

Ramza, distraught, had "retired" from active service. 'Til he heard talk. Talk from Dycedarg most foul. A dagger in the dark, aimed at the throat of Her Highness.

The claimed Southern Sky attack at Orbonne Monastery was but a false flag risen by Northern Sky. Ramza lent his aid in safeguarding Her Highness and planted concern that Messam would be of the most aid.

After weeks of travel, and encounters with thieves and worse—Zalbaag himself, they had finally made it to the castle.

Messam nodded along with the story. Saving his questions, ignoring the inconsistencies. This was far from the full story and rife with lies.

Yet it did not matter.

Her Highness's life was in danger and Dycedarg—thusly in alliance with Duke Larg and the Queen. They had a cause of righteousness for Duke Goltanna to rally behind.

"You have done well," said Messam. "All of you. There is no praise I could give that you are not owed. I will inform Duke Goltanna and Count Orlandeau of your situation at once. Rest assured, Your Highness, that your safety is guaranteed and justice shall be brought forthwith. The amenities of this Castle are at your disposal. You shall want for nothing."

"Your hospitality is greatly appreciated, Marquis Elmdore," answered Her Highness. "There is one more matter we must discuss. Lavian."

The selected Lionsguard brought forth a written scroll. "With the duplicity of the White Lion plain for all to see, it is only wise to take certain precautions." She approached him after an allowance and placed it before him. "This is a agreement that we of the Lionsguard, as well as Ser Ramza, will remain steadfast to our duty as guardians of Her Highness."

"The Lionsguard and Ser Beoulve have ensured my safety these past months. They are entrusted with my favor and I will not accept their separation, even at the request of Duke Goltanna."

Travel had hardened them. It would make cooperation more difficult. But for now… "I understand. I shall review this thoroughly and present it at a future meeting."

"Thank you, Your Excellency."

"If I would be excused, I must prepare the Castle staff for your lodgings. Rest assured there shall be no talk of what has transpired within this room. Your weapons shall be returned."

"You are excused, Marquis."

Messam knelt once more before he departed. With all due alacrity he made the preparations. Let Celia and Lettie handle their guests personally. Have them want for nothing. No comfort was to be excused. The most prestigious rooms at the castle were readied. Rooms, separate for all. A new detail of guards. More women now safeguarded the halls than knights manned the battlements.

And word, hushed and private, sent to Besslat and Zeltennia. There was no soul within the castle walls he dared trust enough with the truth. Only in vague terms did he ink the importance of what transpired within. Cid and Druksmald would understand. Once Cid arrived, they would have proper escort to bring Her Highness before the Duke. It was simply too dangerous to risk otherwise. The Ebon Eye's victory over the Blackrams had damaged travel north. She had faced enough difficulties, she didn't need more.

Unknowingly, he clutched Gemini every moment he was alone.

* * *

 _My Lord,_

 _What transpires within the walls of Limberry Castle is a matter so secret I dare not put the truth of it to ink. I request your presence, with all your most trusted knights, to Castle Limbery at once so that I may explain in person. I have sent a letter to His Grace regarding this matter. No other eyes have borne witness to this._

 _Limberry._

Cid put the letter down. Thrice over he had read it and thrice over his blood chilled. A matter so severe that even a man as courageous as Messam feared it could shake the foundations of Ivalice.

He set the letter slight, let every scrap of it turn to ash.

There was only one correspondence that Cid could think of. Messam had been contacted by the Church of Glabados.

His spy ring had worked tirelessly to keep tabs on the Church, movements of the Northern Sky and Her Highness's suspicious absence. The first two were making peculiar, but not unexpected, movements, in light of the circumstances. The accusations attributed to the third were absurd. The Southern Sky had no orders to kidnap Her Highness. Yet the princess had gone astray from every single intelligence station Cid had.

The Besselat garrison was on constant readiness. A fool's task to lay siege to it, yet surprise had its advantages. Leaving his command might prove dangerous.

He would still meet with Messam's trust.

He transferred authority over to General Zell. Taking thirty stout knights with him, Count Cidolfus Orlandeau rode east.

* * *

Four days of rest and recuperation had done much for the stamina of the princess's guards, and their lady herself. Worries still clawed at their minds and actions. Suspicions, fears. But full bellies and warms beds had their ways of instilling gratitude.

For Alicia, Lavian and Annabelle it had been their first adequate sleep in a month. Agrias and Ramza and Bervenia, and Her Highness always the benefit of the best of their circumstances.

It was still an improvement for them all. No longer worn down with the weariness of travel. Bodies replenished and restored. Appearances restored.

It almost sat uneasy in Ramza's stomach. Waiting. So much had occurred from Orbonne onwards that this time gone idle gnawed at him. Six months training Templars had set his body to always be active, so just resting began pushing him impatient.

Funny, in its own way.

But activity would also cleanse his mind of worry. For their future. For Delita. For Alma. Gylda and the rest of the unit. Lionsguard too.

Most importantly for Ovelia.

Messam insisted that Her Highness minimize appearances outside her quarters. They only met at meals. Ramza understood the reason. Accepted it.

It did not stop the yearning in his heart.

He'd taken to speaking with the Lionsguard once more. (Alongside some of the Castle staff speaking with him. Celia and Lettie were the boldest servants he'd ever met.)

Among his talks over the days, was a request to Lady Agrias.

On the third day, when she and Alicia were practicing their swords while Lavian and Annabelle guarded Her Highness, he approached her and made his request:

"Holy Knight training?" she was taken aback. "It is not out of hand, but not every knight is capable of handling the specific magicks required. What has brought this on?"

Alicia nearby cut short her archery to overhear.

"Expanding my repertoire to be more useful, for the lady." Dancing around specifics.

Enough rest and they were all settling to improve. Alicia with her bows. Lavian taking monks and Annabelle black magicks. All of them a bit of chemistry and white mage as well. After seeing his brother, Ramza was looking deeper into time magicks as well.

"I am not against it," Agrias bit her lip however. "However, the stances and forms require months of rigorous repetition. More so than the standard ways of war."

"Fortune for us that I spent six months drilling others in such." Ramza swiftly demonstrated the basic steps of a Holy Knight's swing. "It is the secrets of magick unleashing that I could not learn. Those are only passed down by a select few, and I was not one of them." Mayhap because the Church did not trust him. Rather clear, in hindsight.

Agrias did not quite grumble, but his request seemed to weigh uneasy with her. "That is so. Very well then… You have the movement down now, let's see how far you can go."

"Til Agrias and Alicia replaced the others as guard Ramza studied under her. He kept pace with her physical movements splendidly. When it came to manifesting the holy sword skills, he fell behind. He knew how to mold the magick in. To force it where it needed to go, what it needed to be.

Fire, ice, lightning. Cure, haste. Jumping and rending.

These were concepts he had practice in but the Holy Sword was completely different.

It was not so simple as before. Where a black mage would call fire and simply channel more power for firaga that could not be done. There were intricacies, multiple stages and changes to be made. Delicate balances to be struck.

He could conjure forth a Judgement Blade.

But in such time he could have struck ten times and cured an ill.

And Agrias could have done so ever the fastest.

He had a profound new respect for wielders of the higher arts.

His body was sore with a good exhaustion for once. "Thank you, Agrias," he said at the end of their shift. "It was splendid to train with you. You are a wonderful teacher."

"Yes…" She wistfully said. "We should return to the lady's side…"

"I will practice what you've taught me."

She gave a nod before she and Alicia left.

"Like this..." he said, with only the eyes of guards on him. He repeated the movements…

* * *

"That was unnerving," admitted Alicia once they'd left earshot of Ramza.

Beoulve blood was great indeed. Even under direct tutelage it had taken Agrias a year to perform Judgement Blade at its barest level. To the exclusion of all other pursuits. Had his extra training attributed to his swift understanding?

"Take heart that he fights for, the lady." It spoke awkward to not grant given due.

"It is, yet." Alicia fumbled in worry. "We saw how his brother fought. Seen his expanded masteries."

It may make Zalbaag Beoulve all the more dangerous. "Then we shall redouble our own efforts." She'd rested on the laurels of Judgement Blade enough. The Holy Sword still had more.

* * *

Count Cidolfus Orlandeau was on time to arrive on the fourth day since the princess's arrival. With him was a command of thirty chocobo knights.

Marquis Elmdore greeted them at the gates, extending the invitation inside and accommodations for mounts and men.

Led by the castle lord to castle's keep.

There, sitting in lord's chair was a girl of sixteen summers. Dress red, plain, but well-made. Hair tied back in long braids. Face solemn and neutral to his arrival.

He'd never seen her, yet knew immediately.

He took knee as fast as the old joint let him. Before Her Highness the Princess. Before the Four radiant Lionsguard protecting her and the man forty-years too young to be Barbaneth Beoulve yet mimicked him all the same.

"Rise, Count Orlandeau," she bid him. He did. "Do you understand for what purpose you have been summoned?"

His mind had gone to conspiracy and corruption of Church. Only barest spare thought for this!

He nodded.

Their story was told.

His fists clenched.

Conspiracy and corruption of the nobility, of the royalty instead. "Your Highness, by my name, by my House, and by my sword, I will see you safe to Duke Goltanna if that is your wish." He ignored the one name missing in the history told: Beoulve.

"It is."

Messam had prepared in advance. Fresh chocobos for all. Himself, servants, every trusted individual within the Castle would shield their venture north.

Scuffle, yelling and trouble bubbled behind. Drawing all attention as the doors were thrown inwards and in stumbled a messenger.

Swords were drawn, Lionsguard moved.

The messenger, look of fright, appearance as if he ran through the war's front lines heaved for air. "Duke Goltanna is dead!"

* * *

 **AN: Slapdash writing mode go. Prepare for Chapter storm ye few still reading.**


	66. Chapter 65: Affairs in Disorder

**Chapter 65: Affairs in Disorder**

Three letters dominated the attention of Duke Druksmald Goltanna. Working late into the evening in his office at Zeltennia Castle. These matters so grave they could not wait even a few hours rest.

Firstly, a message in cypher:

 _My Lord Duke,_

 _Investigations into the assailants of Orbonne Monastery continue apace. However, with the recent catastrophe that has befallen the building, my agents can no longer gather direct intel. All contact with the men stationed inside has been lost._

 _Nevertheless, it is clear to me that only the Order of the Northern Sky could have perpetrated this issue. For we were unaware of the exact date of Her Highness's departure. As they have not announced the finding of the princess either, it leads me to presume that another party has taken hold of her._

 _Our suspects are as follows:_

 _Grand Duke Barrington of Fovoham._

 _The Church of Glabados._

 _While the Khamja are experts of their craft my agents have kept pace with them before and report no mobilization of the Grand Duke's hands._

 _However, as we have been unable to locate both Her Highness or the perpetrators of the attack, we are lacking in information. It thusly remains a possibility that The Grand Duke is culpable._

 _With regards to the involvement of the Church of Glabados. Members of the Knights Templar have been scouted all across Ivalice. While far from suspect, as all organizations must have their traveling men, the Church would be aware of Her Highness's departure schedule. In addition, their neutrality in political circles presents a safe refuge should Her Highness be fleeing from unsavory elements. It is within reason to also presume a wandering Knights Templar may have take her as a ward to Mullonde or Lionel._

 _I will continue my investigations into this matter, save you would wish otherwise._

 _Finally, there have been disconcerting reports regarding movements of the Order of the Northern Sky. While it is understandable that there is some activity due to the aforementioned events, the level of mobilization and the constant departures of Zalbaag Beoulve from within the Capital, are a growing cause for concern. I have set Besselat to full alert and ordered border forts on vigilance._

 _Once more, if you would have me otherwise, please do order._

 _With Regards,_

 _Count Orlandeau_

Secondly:

 _My Lord Duke,_

 _It is with heavy heart that I have been informed of the accusations levied against your most honorable self. Doubtless lies, of the highest order. You have ever been a man devoted to the Crown and the betterment of Ivalice's peoples. While what aid my humble means can provide is limited, act knowing you are true and right with both the Church of Glabados and the people of Ivalice._

 _With Respect,_

 _High Confessor Marcel_

Lastly, also in cypher:

 _My Lord Duke,_

 _It is will all respect due that I inform you of an event within Castle Limberry's walls so grand that to put it to ink would risk it all. Know, that I have sent message to Count Orlandeau as well. Within one week's time we shall arrive in Zeltennia. I trust now only in you and the good Count._

 _Limberry._

It was much to take in.

Druksmald's own agents had regarded little more success than Cid's. Reports of the princess heading north, but nothing else. Their efforts had been stymied well.

Too well to be the hand of the Church. This could only be the work of the Khamja. The Grand Duke supported the decadence of the Queen already. The man was unpleasant to an extreme, but his forges would burn ferociously for the Northern Sky.

At the very least the High Confessor offered his support. Even in part, it was a welcome sight to read. The Church's support was the support of the people and the people were Ivalice.

Then, of most concern, was Messam's cryptic statement. It would have been inked shortly after Cid's, but arrived concurrently.

Yet, that may well have been for the best. For the two messages prior had one bold commonality. So why not the third? One whom's presence would necessitate such murky specifics?

By some manner Her Highness had made it to Limberry.

Oh, it might have just been faint hope that led him to that conclusion. There was an excitement and eagerness to Messam's message. With Her Highness firstly on every righteous Ivalician's mind, declaring her had the girl under his care was a danger too great to put to paper. Even in code.

A gentle rapping drew his attention to the door. "Your Grace, 'tis I, Glevanne. Forgive the disturbance at this hour, but there is a matter requiring your attention."

"A splendid timing, Glevanne, I've a matter for you as well. Come, come, enter."

The door opened in and Drukslmald's Channcelor stepped inwards, closing the door behind him. "What do you require of me, Your Grace?" He stepped close enough that the ragged and unkempt gray hairs of his were noticeable in the candlelight.

"We'll be increasing security here at the Castle, and all of Zeltennia proper forthwith."

"Ah, then our matters coincide, I've just received reports of difficulties within the city limits."

An unfortunate timing, with mayhap Her Highness's arrival. "Specifics?"

"There has been conflicts between the citizenry, Zeltennia Guard and Order of the Southern Sky. It is unclear at this moment the cause of this issue, however my men are working on it."

Druksmald took a station at the window. From this tower he could see a city at peace. No fires burned that should not have. "This view, reminds me, every time, of the peace we have helped craft in these troubling times."

"Your wisdom has remained prevalent, Your Grace," said Glevanne taking place besides him. "It shall continue to do so."

"That it will, Glevanne, that it will." He spared smile for his trusted man. "There is much work to be done. Many men are needed. There may be a tax raise required for the events ahead." Newly forged armaments in bulk. Proper winter equipment and training new war chocobos.

"Ah, but, Your Grace, these incidents may have been caused by taxation."

"This is an unfortunate necessity. I fear we may yet be headed for a war Ivalice does not need but Gods take me if I do not mean to fight for her." They had not fought Ordallians away to fall victim to a new tyrant.

Glevanne expressed a sigh. "There is only so much our positions allow, Your Grace. So many eastern flags would fly for the Crown, should war come."

"Do not worry, Glevanne. I've every confidence in our bannermen."

"Ah, of course, Your Grace. I've taken enough of your time. I shall work through the night to root out the source of our troubles."

"Good man," said Druksmald, turning back towards his desk. "Good… man?"

The sharp familiar pain of a stab in the back. "W-why?" Druksmald choked out as his strength gave and he fell to his knees. He groped for the wound but could not reach it.

"I… I!" blubbered Glevanne. Through eyes winced with pain Druksmald turned to see the tearful expression on his traitorous friend's face. "Your Grace… the Queen she… You should not have kidnapped the Princess!"

"I did no such thing!" Vigor enough remained to shout at his beleaguered Chancellor.

"You were so assured about the war… I… Ivalice could not take another war, not so soon! I'm right," he sobbed, "I'm right… even if this is wrong." The bloody knife slipped to the ground with an unceremonious clang. "One man… for how many people? For the people, we always say from our lofty castles."

"The Queen cares naught."

"But I do."

Lies were the last words Druksmald Goltanna ever heard.

* * *

"If you speak true, what is the source of our liege-lord's demise?" Cid demanded of the exhausted messenger. He'd crossed from Zeltennia to Limberry in a day and clearly not spent a second of it resting

"Chanellor Glevanne announced it was an aberration of the heart. He went in his sleep, peacefully."

Had the messages been too much a burden on Druksmald? No, this was timed too conveniently. This messenger, here too swiftly. "What of Orran?" Cid's son was a cornerstone of Zeltennia's command structure.

"I, am unawares of the status of Master Durai, Count Orlandeau. I was given instructions almost the moment the Chancellor made the announcement. I was but one of many runners."

Sending word across the provinces would result in substantial disruptions—riots at worst. "I presume Chancellor Glevanne has accepted the mantle of leadership with His Grace's passing?"

"To my knowledge, yes."

Cid shared a nod with Messam. The liege-lord of Limberry understood as well. Glevanne had turned against them. Why, for what purpose would he abandon forty years of loyal service? Did power tempt him so?

"My Lords," one of the Lionsguard addressed them. "I would presume this Chancellor Glevanne is on suspicion as the assassin of Duke Goltanna?"

He reluctantly admitted, "Yes."

"Then, the question is, why?"

"Whip Zeltennia into a chaos. Divide loyalties. Trade the Black Lion for White."

"My meaning was unclear. Why _now_."

Because of Her Highness, certainly. Yet, His Grace did not know. So Chancellor Glevanne would not. Had whatever convinced him, also lied about Her Highness's whereabouts?

"If we are to presume the Queen is behind this betrayal," continued the Lionsguard, "she would have an assassin in place against the rival of Duke Larg. Why then, spend resources making attempts on the life of Her Highness?"

"For certainty."

"Perhaps. Yet, he could have waited until Her Highness was in Zeltennia to strike."

"Chancellor Glevanne is not a man of war. He would have been caught. As, I presume, you Lionsguard would not leave Her Highness's side." This was a desperate act. Ill-thought and passionate. "This leaves us at an impasse." Glevanne's action (or not) had left their situation perilous.

Her Highness spoke, "Do you no longer mean to carry on, in Duke Goltanna's place?"

"'Tis not so simple, Your Highness," Cid replied. "His Grace rallied more men than either His Excellency or I could. With his passing we could raise little more than half the Southern Sky. What other traitors are within the ranks? What nobles would seek advantages of their own in this situation? Even should we declare him traitor and march we are still in the icy grip of winter. If Chancellor Glevanne holds enough men in sway to man the walls we will not be able to breach them. A siege camp in winter would stop cold all attempts before they began. And if the Northern Sky marched?" Cid shook his head. One well-timed knife had put pause into hundreds of thousands of soldiers.

"Then what will you do?" asked the boy, Barbaneth's son, the third, Ramza.

"Discuss. Make plans. Now is not a time for rash action."

"I agree with Count Orlandeau," added Messam. "The situation in Zeltennia is unclear. Time may yet sort this for us beyond one messenger."

Possibility did remain this could be trick of some matter. The man's life would be forfeit.

"Then, we will wait," said Her Highness. "May the Gods look favorably upon us."

* * *

Once more Zalbaag Beoulve knelt before His Queen. With Lord Brother and liege-lord at his side. They'd worked tirelessly for her sake and to prepare for the arrival of the High Confessor late in the evening.

Another issue, was holding within Zalbaag's mind. One he needed to directly confront Lord Brother and Duke about once the audience had concluded.

From Her Majesty's lips came a shock so severe it left him numb.

"Duke Goltanna has passed."

All the well-trained mannerisms kept the three men in their place even as begging the "how" crossed their minds.

"This news saddens us. Ivalice has lost one of its oldest defenders. This may yet be a source of hope. Chancellor Glevanne has taken upon himself the duties of arranging the estate of the late Duke. Among his correspondences, was the location of the missing Princess Ovelia."

So, the Black Lion's treachery had been revealed for all to see. Where else but Limberry, for Her Highness's prison?

"Remember Duke Goltanna for the man he once was, not for what he became. Once Princess Ovelia has been returned to proper custody we may progress beyond this unforgivable betrayal."

Her royal gaze swept over all of them. "I have commanded that a battalion of 300 loyal knights be sent across the border and escort the princess to Lesalia."

The answer to Zalbaag's missing knights came from the person he expected it the least. From Lord Brother's and His Grace's expressions they held the same reaction. 300 knights were not near enough to defeat the Marquis should he resist. Large enough that no Southern Sky fort would disturb them in the wake of the Duke's demise.

Entirely the point.

It was a check on the marquis's loyalties.

Her Majesty had always been a shrewd woman. Even if they were her knights, it still did not weigh rightly on Zalbaag's shoulders to be ignored as such.

"Chancellor Glevanne has also called for aid in the safekeeping of Zeltennia. The Order of the Southern Sky has become disrupted following the passing of Duke Goltanna. Order, must be restored. We shall leave it within your capable hands to determine the best course of action. You are dismissed."

Seen outside, without a word spoken back. This was not a meeting of confidants, but a declaration to subjects.

"I will speak to my sister in private," said His Grace. "My apologies for her brusqueness, my friends. I fear all the stress of her position has encouraged her to action so she may ward unpleasantry away with good news."

"We have all undertaken such difficulties before, Your Grace," said Dycedarg. "It is understandable. We then must endeavor to return to her trust"

"Thank you." His Grace smiled.

"The Expedition Force," Zalbaag interjected, "to retrieve Her Highness has been outfitted well for the journey to Limberry and back." The reports had indicated a considerable expense for this movement. "I would overmuch like to be among them. It would be a trifling thing to make pursuit."

"No, Zalbaag," said His Grace. "Her Majesty has not seemed fit for you to follow, Respect her command."

"Yes, Your Grace." Would there be no redemption for his failures?

"We must thusly prepare for the worst." He affixed them both a severe look. "While our negotiations have been cordial so far, there is no telling if Marquis Elmdore would take this chance to rebel. He has Her Highness, and doubtless imagines foul play in Duke Goltanna's passing. Begin preparations to advance into Limberry."

"Your Grace, I may yet be able to prevent the Marquis from rash action."

"How so?"

The stone close to his chest felt warm. "His Holiness will be arriving within moments. With his assistance—not to be presumptuous—we may be able to convince the Marquis of the foolhardiness of any rebellion."

Duke Larg frowned. "I would not think His Holiness predisposed to interference, no matter the noble goal."

"The Church has long been the caretakers of Her Highness." The attack on Bervenia, too, would put that neutrality in peril. "Is it not worth a talk for peace? To save lives?"

"Lives of the guilty, Zalbaag," said Dycedarg. "Make no mistake, if he resists he must be held accountable, swift surrender or no. Letting him free without consequence makes mockery of the laws we of House Beoulve uphold."

"I am agreement with Dycedarg," said Duke Larg.

"I, as well." Zalbaag nodded. Good men must die, sometimes. "What of Zeltennia? We've not procured enough winter equipment to garrison the province."

His Grace nodded. "Enough for a fort, or city, perhaps."

"Then there is a fort we should take," said Dycedarg. "Besselat."

Zalbaag thought the earlier news had numbed him. Yet there was enough left to be stunned. They'd made plans in bulk to retake the Fortress should Ordallian take it. To turn those on other Ivalicians would be the last thought ever cross in mind when those were inked.

"I respectfully disagree," Zalbaag defended. "There is no need to send men into a futile battle. We may have winter equipment to not suffer extensive losses to weather, but we lack in siege equipment, to say nothing of the cliffs and river rendering any progress for such slow and dangerous."

"I am aware of the ricks, brother. I am also aware of the benefits. Marquis Elmdore has doubtless called Count Orlandeau from elsewhere. The Thunder God's absence from Besselat will weaken its defenses and moral will be low from the news of Duke Goltanna's lose. A sure-aimed strike could break the unbreakable and send definite message that the Southern Sky could not resist the Northern."

It would open up the field of Limberry for raids come spring. Threat of starvation would cause mass desertions within the ranks and substantial war funds for price hiking desperate refugees. A goodly number of operational mines would be within striking distance as well.

The benefits were substantial and clear. "I must still protest. Much of the accomplishments garnered by taking the Fortress may be mimicked by striking from the Fusse Plains. We may then be able to surround Besselat and starve them out." Direct attacks from Limberry Castle would be spread across the farming fields. Any assaults from Zeltennia would be slowed to the Sandwastes. "That is, if it comes to it." Hope still rode for a bloodless taking.

"I will present your plans to my sister," said His Grace. "Convince her to not repeat the rashness of before."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Dycedarg, continuation preparations as you see fit. Zalbaag, meat with His Holiness and offer him every comfort."

The Beoulve brothers swore and went about their tasks for Lord and Crown.

* * *

Travel had not agreed with Marcel Funebris in many years. Travel in winter less so. The procession for the King's funeral had taken much from the High Confessor and the trip through the suddenly more biting cold sapped even more so.

It was a sad necessity. The Queen needed to be placated lest her barbarity began spearing heads once more. He would offer her platitudes and promises. "Once Her Highness has returned to Lesalia I will graciously bless His Highness as designated Heir before all of Ivalice's Royal Family."

Letters sent to Duke Goltanna and Marquis Elmdore to keep their hearts burning with resistance. "The Church supported the efforts of the people; not the corruption of the Queen and the White Lion. The Black Lion has our support."

Plans had been pushed off course but not beyond correcting. Near all the Stones were there's. Cletienne had sought and retrieved Aquarius from a mine in Gollund. (Lady Dueller's predicament had inspired the Sorcerer.) Pisces and Virgo would be recovered from the wreckage of Orbonne.

Ivalice would have its leaders. It would have its Braves. No Lucavi would dare manifest once more on this world.

The near full strength of the Templars Officers accompanied him. The Dire matters of Bervenia saw Folmarv, Linnett, Meliadoul, Palamedes and the in-disguise Wiegraf arrive. From Mullonde was the new lad, Mustadio. Loffrey had met in Gariland; Cletienne at Gollund with the latest Stone.

Isilud and Delita were buried under the monastery. Zalmour and the Inquisition seeking them. Ramza had betrayed them. A sad affair, after all their support of his endeavours. Alfredo remained in Mullonde.

Fifty more Templars accompanied them.

Ser Zalbaag greeted them will all due pleasantries. Travel dragged weary, and Marcel "requested" lodgings firstly. Within the capital's grand cathedral he and his escorts took sanctuary. Away from unwanted eyes.

Within a room, Marcel conversed with his Templars. All save Mustadio, too new, too dangerous.

"I've never seen a look so graven on your face, Folmarv," said Marcel. "What troubles you so?"

"The truth." One so black it put his eyes to darkened fear.

"What of?"

"The Stones." At his order, Meliadoul brought forth the three in possession. Leo, Aries, Sagittarius (which the High Confessor bestowed upon Meliadoul himself).

"Have you worked the Holy Magicks within?"

"They are no such thing," Wiegraf spat. "Within your holy auracite are naught but the Lucavi of legend—nay Lucavi of reality."

A wave of disbelief crashed over the rest of the

Marcel narrowed his eyes at the erstwhile swordsmen. Anger would do no good correcting this waylaid man.

"Hold your tongue," said Folmarv.

"I have held it long enough."

Folmarv ceased his glare. "He is correct, Your Holiness."

"I did not think you a man to lie to me, Folmarv," said a disappointed Marcel.

"The voice that raked at my mind at the Nelveska ruins did so once more when I engaged my foemen," declared Wiegraf "There was no man of metal here. No excuse. Nothing the same save a stone thought holy."

No, there remained another constant. "We took you into our ranks, and your repayment is the spreading of your demonic masters."

Wiegraf's jaw went wide, stunned. "You would think I spread these things? Why then did I not call forth my demonic ken and tear bloody the Northern Sky's throats?"

"Your unholy pact only made after. Desperate, a plea to infernal powers that damned your soul and Ivalice. Seize him."

"Dogged old fool," he yelped, "why would I bring this to your attention if I am the source of this."

"Confusion and lies are every word a Lucavi spreads. A deception—a ruse I've seen through." Marcel looked at his Templars. "Seize this traitor."

"Your Holiness," said Folmarv. "I stand by his assertions."

Marcel sighed. "Both of them."

"No," spoke out Meliadoul. "Your Holiness, I beseech you, offer my life as collateral, listen to my Lord Father's words." She knelt.

Marcel looked the girl over. So resolute. "Your daughter is more noble than you Folmarv. Speak your peace so this judgement may pass."

"Thank you, Your Holiness," he accepted. "I have clutched Leo for near a year now. No voice of vile Lucavi has pierced my mind, yet, my recollection, hazes. I find myself holding it unknowingly. Peering into its depths for hours—unaware of time. Movements I felt not my own but not in so specific a term. All these moments, vanished, without concern, when in the presence of others. A vital object taken and replaced without realization. Much like the subtle spells. Silence, confusion. The stones are of ancient magicks we are unaware of. Their splendor may cast a glamor over us we are not aware of."

"Meliadoul, have you experience the same?" the High Confessor asked of her.

"No, Your Holiness, I have not."

His gaze swept. "And you, Cletienne Duroi?"

"Nay, Holiness."

"Loffrey?"

"No, Your Holiness."

His holy gaze fixated once more upon the two men. "Did you feel this, as well?"

"Near enough," answered Wiegraf.

"Have any of you witnessed this?" the High Confessor put to all. "Any?" And not another else did. "Folmarv, my _friend_ ," he emphasized, "it is no wrong thing to become mesmerized by the radiance of the Zodiac Stones."

"'Tis more than simple adoration."

"When the Aries stone spoke," Cletienne interrupted, "what was your condition?"

"Near to death," answered Wiegraf.

"Claudino as well, when we all heard that infernal chorus."

Palamedes shook his head. "Men aplenty were dying around Wiegraf, why then, did it not shine earlier? Or Libra?"

"Mayhap, in light of testimonies given, the Lucavi require certain… people, to manifest from."

"Then all the more reason to restrain him," the High Confessor ordered.

Wiegraf guffawed. "I throw aside the demon's offer and am repaid in threats and distrust. If I am so foul a beast I would turn now and tear you all asunder. I saw that damnable thing's actions myself and none in this room could stop me."

Cletienne shrugged. "He's right."

"This is no light matter, Cletienne," Loffrey chided him. From his surcoat he pulled free the Capricorn stone. "The Stones are Holy. But mayhap, they seal the Lucavi. A prison eternal for eternal prisoner."

"We slew one well enough," said Meliadoul.

"Did we?" Loffrey replied. "We know little. Ending the menace may yet have set it at liberty for havoc unmatched."

This conversation was escaping the High Confessor's control. "You have made bold, unsubstantiated claims. Profaned Holy Artefact with your blasphemies. Have I erred, my wayward children? Has my initiative not brought forth all twelve Stones once beheld by Saint Ajora Himself? Yet you look at them with fright—despair. When they are to be our salvation. The salvation of all of Ivalice."

His words shamed them all silent. Even Wiegraf, disgruntled as he was.

"The time at hand is too critical to be wary of. You are strong, you are Templars. Your wills are not so easily bent before the will of heresy and unholy." He affixed solely upon Wiegraf. "Your virtue is an aspiration for us all. You are no servant beholden to wicked masters. Forgive my humble self. Age has dulled senses, and mannerisms." Prostration did not fit the High Confessor of Glabados.

"Then end this menace," Wiegraf replied. "Hurl these stones into the fiery depths of Mount Bervenia. Ensure these Lucavi never rise again."

To even suggest such left the High Confessor without words.

"We've no understanding that such an act would destroy the Lucavi," said Loffrey. "Or even the Stones themselves."

"If it is the latter so much the better, jailed eternally in flames no man can endure? A fitting end."

"To act rashly is to act foolishly," the High Confessor regained his composure. "We must study, pour over every document even barest related to the Cataclysm for truths regarding this foulness."

"But," said Linnett, "Orbonne is in ruins."

The words stung at Meliadoul. Folmarv kept neutral, yet concern for his family was behind those eyes of his.

"Mullonde has its tomes." None helpful so far. But there were many to peruse. "As does Lionel."

"Lionel…" Folmarv repeated. "The Cardinal."

"What of His Eminence?" asked Cletienne.

"Scorpio."

Once more the High Confessor's breath was stolen with an accusation in so few words. He knew this trip was ill on health but never would he have thought it so outlandish. "I have know Cardinal Alphonse Delacroix since before the Stone of Scorpio ever touched his palms. In all those years, he has not once turned into a wretched hellspawn. Not once has he been anything more than the man I knew. He is more beyond reproach than anyone within our Holy Institution."

Yet.

No.

Something pricked at the back of his mind.

Something small. So insignificant he should ignore it.

In any other circumstance he would not even have noticed.

Yet… now…

No.

"Templars, seek within your mind a memory, an event specific, but of shared consequence. Of the time, of the time you firstly learned of the plannings for the retrieval of the Stones." And with it the resurrection of the Braves and downfall of the Royal Family.

Each of them, Folmarv to Wiegraf to Meliadoul, did so.

"Do you remember, the bafflement, the stunning display? Resistance to it."

"Yes" and its variants his answer.

Only one man did not show such reluctance. One man supported him wholly from inception. Simon Penn-Lachish could not accept it, forced himself into retirement. Cassandra Cwengyth, whom he'd known since childhood, did resist but relented as Ivalice plunged ever deeper into ruin.

Cardinal Alphonse Delacroix alone offered his fullest support from onset.

At the time it came as no surprise. A mutual understanding.

All the surprising events of this evening had plucked at the memory. And more.

When did Marcel first hold such ambitions? After Alphonse firstly grasped Scorpio.

"We must hasten the recovery of Orbonne. Folmarv, task your men how you will, find out the truth."

"What of your guard, Your Holiness?" Folmarv asked for more.

"We've other arrangements to uphold," added Loffrey.

"The Lucavi threat now takes prevalence." They accepted the order. All save a dismissive Wiegraf. "You think otherwise?"

"Chasing demons? A revolution of its own, I would suppose."

"Do you think men in power wouldn't collude if it benefited them?"

"They would." Wiegraf crossed his arms. "I tire of delays in these affairs."

"As do I, but we cannot proceed with Lucavi lurking in the shadows."

Wiegraf voiced a disgruntled, "Very well," and ended the argument.

"We must also intercede on the Cardinal's lands," Marcel announced. "Templars alone—no Inquisitors or other Offices are to be informed and—the boy!" He'd been so out of mind that he'd not considered it! "That Mustadio lad holds the Taurus Stone. He may be influenced by it as we speak."

"Then… mayhap, Delita as well," Meliadoul offered.

The implications came to them all. What force could have destroyed Orbonne Monastery so effortlessly? A Lucavi.

"All Stones were accounted for, he held none," said Loffrey.

"Isilud…"

"...and Virgo."

"This is an opportunity," said Folmarv. "Observe this Mustadio for signs of influence. Palamedes, Loffrey, remain with His Holiness. Palamedes, Cletienne, you," _Wiegraf_ , "towards Lionel and the Cardinal. Linnet return to Mullonde and inform Alfredo in person of these events then meet with Meliadoul and myself at Orbonne ruins. Do not take risks."

"What of the Stones?" poised Cletienne, bringing out Aquarius.

Leo, Sagittarius, Aries, Capricorn, Aquarius with them. Taurus nearby; Libra with Zalbaag. Gemini with Messam. Cancer with Alfredo. Scorpio with the Cardinal and Pisces and Virgo at Orbonne. All twelve Zodiac Stones accounted for.

Now they must worry for the fates of the men they sought to entrust with the future of Ivalice.

"I shall speak with Zalbaag," Marcel said. "Once we must converse."

"What of Marquis Elmdore?" asked Palamedes.

"Beyond our reach at this time." It pained to say. With that being Her Highness's location they had to foster hope in the Lionsguard and traitor Beoulve. Mayhap that was the oddest turn in these events.

"Zalbaag must have heard the Lucavi's voice," stated Wiegraf.

"I shall keep that in mind." Portray its ruinous voice as the opposite…?

A hasty knock on the door ended the conversation. "Speak," Loffrey ordered.

"My, uh, lords?" The Mustadio boy. "There's some important news, I was just told—heard."

"That is?"

"Duke Goltanna is dead."

* * *

The days in Limberry Castle were a miasma of debate, fruitless arguments and non-action. Word became certain of Duke Goltanna's passing. Words then became of Ovelia's future, and the numerous bannermen now looking to Marquis Elmdore for leadership.

He waited. Count Orlandeau waited.

Maddening.

The only thing Ramza looked forward to on the days was his tutelage under Agrias. Keeping his mind off the drudgery of talking in circles.

He now understood every step needed to manifest the Holy Sword. The difficulty now lay solely in the speed to unleash it. No matter how he tried he could not quite manifest it with the needed alacrity. Frustrations piled on frustrations.

The side project in time magicks proceeded well, as a consolation. A rather funny setting, that.

On the fifth day of his attempts, Count Orlandeau took to the field with them.

The Sword Saint gave Ramza a few tips of his own experience with the Holy Sword.

Ramza saw a little progress.

As fee, he agreed to a private meeting.

Later, in the Count's quarters.

At the designated time, Ramza made his way over.

The Count bid him enter. A humble room, cozy and warm. All the expansive suites marked for Her Highness, Lionsguard and himself.

"Welcome," the Count said from his chair.

"What do you wish of me, Your Excellency?"

Count Orlandeau smiled at him. "Yes, forgive me for taking so long to have this meeting, come, come, sit besides the fire. The training field's sting still red upon your cheek."

Ramza took seat in the opposite chair. "I reiterate my thanks for your additions earlier. I believe I grow closer to acceptable useage of the Judgement Blade."

"You've an excellent teacher," he said. "What I've seen of your lessons with Lady Oaks has painted her as a fine knight. Still, there are minute differences, between how men and women gather their magicks. For other schools it is of little concern but the intricacies of the Holy Sword require intimate knowledge. Now that you're aware, her teachings should flourish."

A fascinating tale. 'Twas simple fact that women were more gifted magickly than men. He'd have never considered this, on his own.

"Is there more, Excellency?"

Count Orlandeau nodded. "I see much of Barbaneth in you, Ramza Beoulve. It is good to see his passion and ardor have passed to you."

He'd not told the Count. "I did not mean to hide it."

"Of course, I understand completely. I could scarce believe Barbaneth's son was the rescuer of Her Highness myself. Now," the Count leaned forward, "I would much like to hear the parts of the story that Marquis Elmdore is not privy too."

"I will not betray Her Highness's trust as is."

The Count nodded. "Good man, loyal. Then, let me put suspicions of my own to air. The Church of Glabados is meddling in affairs it should not."

"The… Church?" Ramza hoped he hadn't given overmuch…

"The movements of the Knights Templar have concerned me for some time now. With free reign in every province they are capable of gathering an unmatched level of information and influence. My every attempt to discern more has fallen short. Then this kidnapping of Her Highness? I believe they allowed it."

"I heard of it from my Lord Brother."

The Count studied his lie. "I understand. Take this to your companions at once then. I understand why you could not trust Marquis Elmdore, yet, I hope you will come to trust me as Barbaneth has."

Before Ramza could reply a knock at the door interrupted.

"Count Orlandeu, Marquis Elmdore requests your presence in the Castle Office. Her Highness, the Lionsguard and Ser Heiral are to attend. We've received a message from Lesalia."

Dire portent indeed.

* * *

Familiar—welcome—delighting!

The presence approaching a wave. Breathtaking even for those who needed not breath.

In the darkness of night beyond the sight of mortal man it slithered in. Shell of flesh and metal—weaker than scale.

Bountiful sight to have ally after so long alone. Tragic loss above before.

Words exchanged in flesh and mind. Gratitude and knowledge drank deep—a basin that never ended. Plans shared and exposed.

Maiden girl brought before. Stone that shined forever more. O' Bloody Angel thy host illuminate in ruination's light!

Secrets of hosted man. Ancient, terrible, for these fleshing kept too many dark secrets. So perfectly hosted to be host to another dark secret. Body, Stone and Soul all so close!

Story told.

A threat!

A Tomb their goal and pass was now a tomb its own. The key lost, buried. Guarded.

Desperate retreat for higher purpose. The flesh influences the mind.

Important. Yes.

Proper and right. Bloody Angel's return must not be jeopardized.

War, war and WAR!

* * *

 **AN: Thanks for the fascinating idea in that Review.**


	67. Chapter 66: Love

**Chapter 66: Love**

Gathered within the Limberry Castle Office was every person of importance to the missive that had arrived from Her Majesty the Queen. Princess Ovelia, the Lionsguard, Marquis Elmdore, Count Orlandeau and Ramza.

A herald from the Castle read aloud the message the Marquis had read in private:

 _The Most Honorable Marquis de Limberry_

 _Our sincerest sympathies for the lose Duke Druksmald Goltanna this past week. Though the Duke and we have had our differences in the past, we know in our heart that the late Duke worked tirelessly for Ivalice's future despite our quibbling. Is lose is a lose to us all._

 _Before his unfortunate passing, Duke Goltanna sent a missive to us in private. Whence we read it I could scarce believe._

 _Marquis you have our deepest gratitude for offering refuge and safety to our missing niece, Princess Ovelia Atkascha._

 _Though the circumstances by which she has come to Limberry are unclear to me, I am doubtless relieved to hear she is safe. Duke Goltanna expressed great pride in your actions, and we, too, as well._

 _As per the wishes of the late Duke, we have dispatched a force of 300 knights belonging to the Order of the Northern Sky to Limberry Castle to take custody of Her Highness and her entourage and bring her safely to Leslaia. This detachment is expected to arrive on the date of 1st of Gemini. We expect every due courtesy to these, extensions of our will._

 _Once Her Highness is secure within the ranks of these knights, we beseech you lend aid to Chancellor Glevanne within Zeltennia. The Duke's passing has given him and his people no end of difficulties. Only you are fit to lead, until the Council of Nobles can convene and appoint a new liege-lord of Zeltennia._

 _Her Majesty Queen Louveria Atkascha of Gallione_

The words within were stunning fit of lies.

Ramza's attention drew to the most pressing danger. One that should not be a danger at all. "300 knights are not near enough to take this Castle," he claimed. Limberry boasted thrice that in the garrison he'd personally witnessed. "To even march so brazenly across Limberry would have them accosted by every Southern Sky fort between here and the border."

"You speak out of place," said His Excellency. "The Order of the Southern Sky has become paralyzed by the loss of His Grace. Local commanders would sooner keep their posts safe than risk encounter with the enemy, no matter how outmatched. As evidenced by the simple fact that it is a report from the enemy side that first alerts us to their arrival."

"So, then we should expect these knights on the morrow."

"What then, becomes our course of action."

Ramza had to blink away confusion. "Fight. These knights will not see Her Highness safely to Lesalia. They are assassins, one and all."

The Marquis shot him a look a parent would give a child who did not understand. "What then? We would split Ivalice in twain for a war we could not win."

He could scarce believe the words set before him. "Count Orlandeau, are you of the same opinion?"

He nodded. "What the Marquis says is sensible. With Zeltennia in chaos we've naught but Limberry and scattered Sky to wage this war."

"There may be no need for war, My Lords," Lavian spoke up. "A firm rejection of this advance and official permission to hold custody of Her Highness could tie the channels of the royal court long enough to muster enough force to make any attacks untenable."

"They've assassinated the man I'd sworn my sword to and have the audacity to proclaim a hero on a paper demanding our servitude. Any act we perpetuate short of full cooperation would lead to war." He sighed. "I would like nothing more than to seek justice for this crime, but I will not commit more for my own vanity."

Annabelle leapt from her chair. "Would you mean to give Her Highness to those who mean her harm?"

"Annabelle…" Ovelia called.

"Do the tales of the Thunder God and Silver Noble die so unglamorously? To tolerate such injustice?"

"Rashness is for the young, Lady Jeanne," Count Orlandeau told her in an even told. "We have more people under our protection than just Her Highness. You have taken your oaths to your lady and hold to them admirably, but the soldiers within these walls? In the forts and strongholds that make the countryside have not. Were they motivated by chance of victory, they would fight. But no man fights for hopeless cause."

No. Without the help of the Count or Marquis this cause was hopeless. But Ramza would still fight for Ovelia's sake.

"Then, Count Orlandeau," said Ovelia, "what do you plan?"

His reply was preceded by a deep breath and a long period of silence. "Flee, Your Highness. Take refuge with relatives in Ordallia and forget everything you knew about Ivalice."

"Preposterous!" Annabelle roared and Ramza was right behind her in outrage. "They would use her for war! Just as you fear!"

"No, Ordallia recovers from the Fifty Years' War as Ivalice does. They've no intent of declaring again. They saw how poorly it fared for King Denamda II."

"Annabelle." Ovelia's call settled the burning Lionsguard. "We, have considered such an option before. But lacked the means to take it."

The Marquis spoke, "You will have every need fulfilled for a journey to the Ordallian capital Viura."

That was to be it. Ivalice was in the hands of men who'd kill innocent girls for power. Where the most virtuous would not defend those who needed it. This was the Ivalice Lord Father died for. Would the Church accept this? Or force to war? And Delita? Alma? Friends from the Akademy?

This was, perhaps, the best option.

An insufferable best option.

Alicia asked, "How do you intend to answer the demand for Her Highness?"

"The message lies about His Grace's words. So we shall simply lie back," said Count Orlandeau.

Was this all their situation could hope for?

A commotion—yelling. A din enough to pierce even deep in this castle. "Are we under attack?" the Marquis posed. "Herald, find out this disturbance at once!"

Before the confused and out-of-place servant could, the doors to the chamber burst open. "Northern Sky Knights!" a sential panted between breaths. "Hundreds!"

A day early. Lie on paper or pushed hard.

"Have they surrounded the Castle?" the Marquis demanded.

"No, they've situated themselves at the front gate demanding the release of the princess into their custody."

Damn them.

"Are there any routes to escape from?" Agrias asked.

"The undercroft…" the Marquis grimaced.

A second runner pushed her way into the room. "The Northern Sky are demanding Her Highness at once. They look ready to assail the walls."

All the manipulations Her Majesty attempted in letter were fallen short by brutes among the Order. Who but brutes to kill an innocent girl?

Now, a third runner followed in. "They're demanding you, Your Excellency!"

Impatient fools. Mayhap if they delayed enough they would attack and force the Marquis's hand.

No, that was Dycedarg thinking. It had no place here.

"Your Highness," said Agrias, "let us be underway as soon as possible."

"Yes, Agrias."

"Our apologies," said the Marquis. "We will not be able to outfit you as you deserve."

Or at all. They'd only the swords at their waists and clothes on their back. No armor, no chocobos—food or gil. No warm clothing. It was suicide.

They needed time.

And Ramza knew how to purchase it.

He stood from the seat. "Give unto Her Highness all the supplies you can assemble in haste," he said. "I will buy the time you need."

"What do you intend?" Ovelia asked. A question they all shared.

"What I have always done."

"You are no match for 300 knights," stated the Count.

"This act will cause the war," said the Marquis.

"Then cut me down after I've bought the time to save yourselves. I go to save Her Highness." Without further discord he left (as fourth runner came in).

No one chased after him.

He dearly wished they had.

For the Count and Marquis to come to their senses. _(They were sensible they had their own people to worry about.)_

For The Lionsguard to come stand with him against this injustice. _(Stand with Ovelia. Keep her safe.)_

For Ovelia to come and say those words he wanted to hear. _I love you._

He exited to the excitement and shouts on the battlements. He was deaf to the words, the flaggings and movements. He slide through the crowds like water through cracks. At the gatehouse top, he looked down.

Knights, all mounted, all in thick cloaks and winter furs. Pockets and squads segmented to avoid large scale magicks. Ready to ride and surround in one command.

Shouts from the lead knight, a short-haired blonde fellow with a grizzly beard.

In his battle daze Ramza jumped down from the battlements before the closed gates of Limberry Castle.

All attention on his deafening approach.

"Lest the Marquis's title change hands, you're not Elmdore, boy. Get your fancy master or leave in your piss-addled leggings but don't stand there gawking."

Foul mouth for foul deeds.

"The Marquis will be along shortly," said Ramza, drawing his sword to an uproar amongst his foemen. "But I mean to best the lot of you before he appears."

"Ha, the Southern Sky's filled with jesters these days, aye?"

"I am no Knight of any sky."

The lead knight whistled. "Fancy meetin' a member of the Lionsguard here. Go fetch your lady princess then. We're here to escort her to Lesalia on Queen's orders."

"Your proof?"

The knight chuckled. "I don't give proof to you."

"Then it shall not reach Her Highness, wherever she is?"

The Knight made sharp commands with his hands. Squadrons of his chocobo knights split off, surrounding the Castle (as far as Ramza could see). "Lovely little delay of time you got runnin' here. Ain't gonna be no running. Her Highness is safe and sound, little boy. No need to be so hostile!"

"Safe? You mean to kill her!" his voice pierced the heavens. "Is there but one true knight amongst your company! Do any of you feel shame knowing you would kill an innocent!"

"Cold's gettin' to you kid," the lead knight kept his flippant tone. "Like I said, we're here to safely escort Her Highness to her family in Lesalia."

"Then you would not mind an escort of 500 Southern Sky alongside, would you? Her Highness's safety is paramount."

"My orders are no knights but Northern and Lionsguard. You're the latter, so you can come. Them," he pointed at the furious garrison above, "they can stand and sputter."

"I've no intention of being party to thugs like yourselves."

All the flippant cheer drained from the man's face. "You've rattled your insults one too many times boy so let's get this straight. Only my mighty mercy is keepin' you alive and it's frayed thread-thin now. Stand aside."

He'd just made everything worse. This disaster couldn't even be qualified as a plan. "Three hundred to one. You overestimate your chances."

An uproarious wave of laughter came back. "Gods above kid, were you born that bold? Tell'ya what, the boys are hungry for some action and going all-in would be removing us some much needed entertainment in this snow-spread hellscape. So, one-on-one duels 'til you're dead and bleeding and the important folks start showing up."

No honor in this man's deals or words. "I accept those terms." No choice otherwise.

"Now we're talkin'," the man grinned. "Hew, teach the kid a lesson."

A large man dismounted and advanced with hollers and cheers behind him. "Fresh meat." His sword was drawn. Spotless—unused.

Ramza drew his blade in kind. Crystal against mythril. Cloth that would scarce ward off the chill of a balmy autumn agaist full winter armor and apparel.

This was going to be… difficult.

The man was a hulk with a swagger that boasted he'd already won. He discarded his shield to grip his sword in two hands. His stance was not fit for fighting on snow (as Ramza had reminded himself) but cleated boots would take care of that difficulty.

It was still something to exploit.

The man roared and made a headlong charge with his sword raised high.

So simple it would be to dash in and stab. End this fatally and quickly.

The moment any one of these knights died the rest would ignore this sport and rush him. Ramza had to buy time.

He stepped back to avoid the wide slash of the knight. Then moved aside from the lower cut. The man swung with strength to behead in a single blow but he equired enough time between swings for Ramza to keep pace dodging. He mixed in some light attacks of his own to keep the other man off-guard and make play at this being an even fight.

If all 300 fought like this there might be a chance of victory.

Mirthful thought thrown from head by blow that nearly took his head. Ramza ducked forward and pushed the knight back with his shoulder. He was off-balance enough for Ramza to succeed and knock him to the ground.

Ramza brought his sword down—the knight kicked his shin. Gripping spikes bleeding his leg (leaked into boot) but Ramza managed the tip to throat. "I think this victory mine."

Jeers shot out.

The knight snarled at him. Moved.

The fool!

Ramza swung back and knocked aside the knight's sword. Brought his pommel up and pummeled the man unconscious.

More stamina than he wanted to expend. "Next!" he demanded, and kicked aside the beaten foe.

The Northern Sky retained their laughter of superiority at the sight. "Alright," the leader, raucous in mirth said, "Fox, go and give us a good show." He looked up at the battlements. "If I don't see the Marquis after Fox takes the kid out then those gates are breaking."

Too confident for such louts.

Ramza prepared himself for the lanky knight now approaching. Even with his winter equipment he was thinner than Ramza. Still, two swords at once, told a different, dangerous story.

The knight's swings were the opposite of his predecessors, fast and biting with little power. When Ramza dodged one the other snaked around and scrapped a small gash into him.

Bloodied shirt clung to fresh wounds. Defensive was not the option here.

Ramza retook the lead and struck back. Two weapons meant an unsteady defense and each strike Ramza made broke through the guard of his foe. When both blades went high to intercept—Ramza won. Magic in sword and two blades rent at once.

Shards struck both (useless against armor, pain for Ramza) but Ramza's sword dug deep and slashed through armor. Tackle followed and knight fell alongside comrade.

Ramza breathed in the harsh air. The fragments lodged within his body shook in pain at each breath. He ripped free what his numbing fingers could. Chakra after to heal wounds. Blood still stuck his cloth to chest.

Still they laughed.

"I see no Marquis," leader said. "So, I'm not seein' kid no more. Deal with him boys."

"Good," Ramza replied. "One at a time was taking too long." His sword readied to fight.

"Hold," Marquis Elmdore's command from above. "Your demand for my presence is out of station and if you continue your assault on the Gates of Limberry we will respond with the needed force."

"So, nice and clear about your rebelling aye?" I thought the Silver Noble was too wizend for such nonsense."

"I have rebelled not; just as you've sent no indication you're here on the command of Her Majesty the Queen."

"Your Excellency, I much wanted to show the royal decree, but this lout of yours is denying us entry."

"He is no man of mine."

'Twas true.

Ramza wanted this.

Still, being abandoned like this stung.

"He ain't? Well then why'd he come jumping down from your castle like that?"

"He was a guest. Now, no longer. His fate is none of my concern."

Was this what Tietra felt? Delita?

"Well, then I hope you don't mind cleaning up the mess with us."

The Marquis did not reply immediately, prompting Ramza to look up at him. The silver-haired noble looked down impassively. "Does one man truly give three hundred knights of the Northern Sky pause?"

A stab at their pride irritated murmurs from the outer sky. "Does your garrison of a thousand feel the same?"

"Petrified." Said with all the tone of a stone.

"The lads and I take a good jape every now and then," said the leader. "We are not amused. Bring out Her Highness at once."

"Her Highness is not within these walls nor within my protection."

"I've command from the Queen she is," he looked at Ramza, "and the boy here seems to agree."

"He's quite the mad fool, challenging three hundred knights so openly. Pay his flapping tongue no mind."

The leader glared up at the Marquis. "If there's no princess, then your man Goltanna was wrong. And there's no need to refuse any inspection of the grounds too, be sure."

"Duke Goltanna _was_ wrong. I sent him no information of Her Highness's whereabouts because I was unaware of her locale. You have claimed to fight for Her Majesty but you are an undisciplined lout who does not hold his tongue. You ser, are no knight, and less I see papers with Her Majesty's seal upon them I will not grant access to my Castle to you."

"You'll see those soon enough," the leader said. "My men have all avenues of escape covered. If you mean to have Her Highness flee with this distraction, we shall catch her. That would not be seen favorably by Her Majesty, Your Excellency."

"I have nothing to fear or hide."

"We'll see about that," the leader smirked. "Boy, this game is at an end. Take whatever honor beseeches your foolish crusade and flee. Find some filly maid, regal her the story and become a man. But I am done humoring you."

Ramza stood his ground. "A cause? Honor? So foolish to you? You claims yourselves knights of the Order yet stoop to such low threats. You are no noble soul with righteous intent and I will not flee before such cowardice."

All the joviality had fully faded from the face of the lead knight. "I am no noble man. Did you know, boy, that when desperate times saw the vaults of Ivalice brought empty that noble titles were sold? Rich and fat merchants with more money than sense brought titles of peerage from bankrupt nobles too poor to afford bread. So did Ivalice continue!" He threw his arms wide. "You're from some old moneyed house well-off to continue preening about honor. The lads and I are more concerned about the jingles in our pockets. 'Tis true. Does not make you right or we wrong."

"Is that how you comfort yourself at night? Playing assassin for coin?"

"I am no assassin. Just a knight doing his duty." He snapped and a rank of others rode forward. "Trevor, Mitchell, Albert, take care of him."

Three knights. Raising quickly.

Ramza flexed his fingers. He'd lose them by the time he finished with this fight.

It was worth it.

No weapons for these three. Just fists raised like a monk.

Aurablasts broke the air as they struck. Speed was Ramza's defense. Their attacks obvious and crude. They relied on sheer numbers to overwhelm.

Like Wiegraf's many.

This was sacrifice play. Let one or two disarm him whilst third dealt the needed blow.

He'd not fall to such tactic again!

He maneuvered closer. Slight blasts invisible only hitting lightly. His footing secure enough to run forward!

They expected that, drawing back.

He expected that.

An aurablast his own struck only one leg on ground. Perfectly timed—one's head slammed into ground unconscious.

The other two moved to defend. This time Ramza could not dodge their attacks fully. One hit his ear (a second hearing lost) and the other punched his gut.

Not nearly enough to halt his advance! A dash inwards. Their dash back. Flexibility was his ally. He swung first. He struck first. Leftmost knight took the strike to his arms. Blood stained him too.

Rightmost knight brought back fist. Ramza's sword stuck.

Three this might work but not two!

Ramza twisted himself and positioned injured foemen between. Kick outstretched and sent injured knight back.

Final foe hopped away and ready.

Aurablast thrown—painful. Ramza cared naught and charged over knight grasping in pain. Attempts to trip the one true knight failed and Ramza descended upon the uninjured in a fury. His sword wrought a bloody fury the final foe could not defend. "I cede!"

Ramza turned his blade on the one behind. "I cede!"

Five knights defeated. They gathered their third and slumped towards the revived five defeated. White mages.

More than three hundred to best.

Chakra his restore. It'd not outlast their stamina. He looked at Marquis. No sign, no indication Ovelia had left.

"Four next, or ten?" Ramza taunted the lead.

"Gods," the man exclaimed. "I know I shouldn't let you get away with this, but I just want that arrogance of yours smacked out of you. Lambda, Edgar, Ian, Doma, go."

Ramza was ready…

* * *

...Ramza's swing shattered his sword. Bits of crystal joining mythril and iron in his body as he cleaved the helmet off his foemen's head. Bloody red mess that stained puddles in snow.

Last standing knight thrust his lance into Ramza's.

Pain coupled unto more pain. Too many times described it to care anymore. Numb to it and feeling in most of his limbs. His fingers still moved on command but he could no longer feel them.

Body could not endure. With enemy's lance pierced his body, Ramza slumped to his knees. Enemy backed off. Not worth risking more.

"Looks like nineteen's your limit!" the leader—the arrogant bastard—shouted.

Chakra was no longer working. So many slivers of metal kept wounds fresh. Shivering wracked his body as badly as any blow.

An amazement he remained awares after all the punishment. He'd sent so many to sleep with lesser injuries. Still, they'd no need to fight with their lives. He did.

Vigor and gumption were lost to him. His vision was clouded by stinging blood in one eye and doubles fading sight in the other.

He took a deep breath.

Ramza pried the lance free with a cry of pain. It would make a good staff to hold him up. He struggled to his feet as the last standing knight retrieved a dagger from his belt.

Slow, cautiously he approached Ramza.

Ramza's grip slackened—he slipped down the blood-slick pole in his hands.

Doubtless the knight smirked before the trembling legs before him.

Knife in hand, close enough to strike.

For both.

The stab was towards his chest. Working 'round the bloodied lance.

Ramza shoved the pole against the quick hand. It moved off target.

It still stabbed into his chest. His heart remained safe.

To the knight, it didn't matter.

To Ramza it was everything.

Right fist formed one last time. Dangerous play of force combined within as Ramza swiveled about. A full rotation of body, like the cyclone art. But only one strike. One punch at the side of the man's head. His helmet. Fist of two strengths that splintered the metal and Ramza's hand.

The knight was thrown into the ground, unmoving.

Ramza shortly joined him.

Back to ground, face to sky.

Clapping heard in between his desperate pants and heavy heart beat.

"You made it to twenty, kid," said the leader. "I won my betting spread because of that."

Ramza needed his mouth for air. He didn't have the stamina to reply.

"Did you really think this was going to go any other way?" he queried. "Any of you? I've already sent a man back to inform Her Majesty you aren't being cooperative. I can still catch him, if only you comply. But still, you resist?"

 _Shut up._

"We're not enemies! You know that! We're both men of Ivalice that serve the Crown. So let us serve Her Highness's sake. You know what being difficult will result in, don't you? Of course you do! That's why you're letting this reckless idiot kill himself. The one for the many. That's always how it is."

"Shut up," Ramza spat out between blood. He sat up with aching muscles. "You're next. I've had enough of your disrespect."

"You are the disrespectful one!" he pointed. "Not accepting Her Majesty's command; forcing those within to watch this farce. You think it noble to coerce them to your aid?"

Ramza's attempt to articulate the hypocrisy was countered by a cough. The renewed fire that lifted him had given and he fell back down.

She had to be safe by now.

Ramza slanted his eyes back to the top. Surely the Marquis would indicate now.

Instead it froze his blood colder than the ground had done.

Count Orlandeau stood now. Besides Lionguard in heavy cloaks obscuring them. And they besides Ovelia, once more in a white mage's outfit. Cowl's angle hiding her from the gaze of the Northern Sky. (So many above wrapped up the same.)

 _Why…?_ He pleaded. _Run._

Her eyes met his.

* * *

"Then cut me down after I've bought the time to save yourselves. I go to save Her Highness." Ramza stormed off. Forcing past the gathered soldiers, and the fourth just arrive.

Tradition kept Ovelia rooted to the chair.

Could she not break rules to follow him? Stop him? So many worse things committed for her title…

"If I give command, to fight, you would not abide, would you?" she asked of

"No, Your Highness," said the Marquis. "I would not. It is harsh, too harsh for words. But I will not endanger the lives of every soul in Limberry for your cause. No matter how rightly it may be."

Arrows to her heart. Her composure, barely kept. "And you, Count Orlandeau? Your gallantry was known even to me in my studies. Where does your cause lie?"

"With Ivalice." He would not dignify her with eye contact.

"Even a corrupt one?"

"Yes."

Ovelia closed her eyes. All the struggles in vain. The accusations leveled to her lineage.

"Will you please, at least, save him. Can you follow that command?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

Did they lie?

No, it was the only hope she had.

Led to the new destination. The formal clothing given now exchanged once more for the thick robes of the white mage. Lionsguard outfitted in plain armors and cloaks. Chocobos readied in courtyard as shouting and laughter breached the walls. Food and drink and camping supplies for the long road ahead.

Ovelia, Lionsguard, chocobos for them. Escorted by the servants Celia and Lettie. And Count Orlandeau.

Inside. Underground. Musty and dusty. Her new escape.

"This path leads many miles east," said Celia. "We will escort you to its end. After that, your destination yours to decide."

Thanks were required.

Ovelia did not give them.

Silently, by torchlight they entered the pass. Princess, Lionsguard and chocobos.

"When will the running end?" she asked.

No one answered. Her desperate question didn't have one.

Ramza would, wouldn't he?

"Is it cowardly, to trade his life for mine?"

"No!" This time they did.

That made it all the worse.

"The Count, the Marquis, they trade his life… force me east. For the lives of how many subjects? That remains the correct option, doesn't it? One for many."

"Wrong means does not make their choice right," Agrias said. "Sometimes, there are only wrongs done."

"Like abandoning Ramza."

Silence.

"Yes," Annabelle of them all, said. "Yes. For your sake, Highness, flee. Flee beyond Ivalice and live a happy and long life."

She was not born to have a happy life. Men died for her time and again. The only one she'd ever felt lived because of her was not much longer bound in this world.

"No," she stopped, and the escort stopped with her. "There is no life waiting for me. No matter which exit I take from these tunnels." She looked back. Back at where Ramza would be.

"Highness no!" Agrias pleaded.

"Agrias, Lavian, Alicia, Annabelle, thank you for your months of service. As Princess of the Royal House Atkascha, I formally relieve you of your service. Find happy lives of your own."

They shouted. Resisted. Threatened to drag her away.

"Will you force me!?" she screamed. "As everyone has!? 'For my own good'!?" Tears welled down her cheeks. "Once, please, let me do something on my own. For someone else's sake."

"Don't do this, Your Highness," Annabelle beseeched her. "Please?" She seemed close to tears herself.

Agrias, unsteady even herself, said, "Highness I serve you regardless of the oath I swore. Rescinding the order to protect you does not change that. If you would offer yourself to the Northern Sky I would as well."

"No. I will clear all suspicions of you with this. With this act. All of you."

"They shall not honor such an agreement," Lavian argued.

"Nor would we be certain Ordallia would be the sanctuary we seek."

"I'll stop you," Alicia said, moving to do so. "We have not protected you so far to see you throw your life away."

"What life? What life I have led? In Monastery walls? Fearing for my life this month? Not once my life, ever my own. Please, this once. Let a princess die for someone else."

"The same words as your enemies declare," said Lavian.

"No. This, this is for me."

"To march towards death is for you?" shouted Alicia. "We have fought this far to save you life—you would throw that all away…"

"It never stops," Ovelia cried. "You'd never stop fighting. Never. So long as you had cause." With her gone, the Lionsguard… Ramza… they'd be free to have lives of their own.

Annabelle stomped her foot. "No. Highness if you surrender to them I shall as well!"

"Annebelle…"

"You parlayed with Ramza for my life once more so I beg you repeat that…"

 _No._

Agrias said, "He has made the choice to put your life over his own. I ask you respect that."

 _No._

Lavian said, "There's nothing stopping them from killing Ramza either. The situation above could be worse than the reports indicated."

 _No._

Alicia said, "He may well be dead already…"

" _No!_ " she bellowed in tears.

"Your Highness," said Agrias softly. "He is a venerable man. Accept the course he followed, take this opportunity and run."

"He is risking his for mine, why am I not allowed the same?"

"Why…" Annabelle gasped. "Why would you do so much for him?"

 _Because I—because I…!_ She knew what she meant. But the word would not come to thought.

"He… he and you… the only ones… who would not use me…" Truth not full.

"Highness," Agrias sternly said, "he does use you."

"He does not! He cares not that I am princess."

"I did not mean it as such, Highness," Agrias softened. "He uses you to assuage his own guilt regarding the Heiral situation."

"No…"

Agrias slowly nodded. "His every action is brash and reckless. There is nobility behind it, but he, he acts without concern for his life. Throwing it so swiftly into danger as he has? I believe, that some part of him _wants_ to die."

Ovelia shook her head. "No, no, that's not true. You have seen him fight for us— _me_. So so..." He valued her life even when she did not. He would not behold the same thoughts...

"Courageous?" Agrias shook her head. "He splits evenly on that line between bravery and foolishness. He gave no pause for this, did he not? He welcomed death when Annabelle pledged to strike him down should he wrong you. There may have been some other way to escape with us yet he..."

No… she would not believe it. Not with the face he made. In Bervenia. Their camping. In the hamlet where he said those words.

"No…" she clutched at her chest. "I believe in what he said." Her heart did not lie either.

With a speed that surprised her she ran back.

Shouts behind. Darkness ahead.

She held no torch.

She fell. It hurt but losing Ramza would hurt more!

When light returned she pushed up and ran. Her knights keeping pace once more.

To Castle once more. Servants surprised to see. The Count—baffled.

Not for them. Not for anyone but herself and Ramza.

She did not know the castle's floors but found the door outside, to the walls despite that. Winter struck her face already reddened with tears. The walls filled with knights and air thick with shouts.

She pushed through.

Behind her more shouts.

Through them all. Next to the Marquis.

She looked—saw him.

Saw him struggle.

" _Odd as it is to say, Your Highness. I am here to kidnap you."_

Three of the knights were engaging him in combat. Three more, on the ground nearby and a pile some distance further.

"' _Tis hard to prove life fraught by danger when we do our best divert it so."_

Ramza fought desperately. He vanquished another foe.

" _You will not lay your hands on her!"_

Count, Lionsguard, Marquis. All pushed for her to leave. Desperate arrangement. More desperate below. Two hurt him.

" _I would ask you the same, really. You saved my life and now follow me. I cannot abandon you, after such lofty trusted placed upon my shoulders."_

They cut and savaged him. He swung his sword…

" _Then I die as befits a knight. Defending the weak."_

His sword shattered on swing, ending the threat. One remained.

" _Press it closer to your upper lip…"_

Weapon impaled Ramza. Ovelia gasped.

" _Ramza."_

He stumbled. Too much snow was red…

" _Ensuring Her Highness's safety is our primary concern."_

A knife flashed in assailant's hand. Feet moved to end it. "No."

" _I will lie not. A road such as that would be fraught with even more dangers. Though we may yet stumble on the way, though tears may yet stain our cheeks more than not, I believe a better Ivalice awaits. For your sake, I will not fail."_

The man moved forward and stabbed...

" _On my name Ramza Beoulve, I swear to you."_

He was failing her.

She closed her eyes. She opened them. She had to see!

" _It was you who took chance on my words, you who casted protective magicks upon me and you who dragged me in from near death. Not the princess of Ivalice, you, Ovelia."_

Ramza shifted. Fought back as he always did.

" _Someone I care for and that has not changed."_

He won. As he always did.

" _Good. If I would threaten Her Highness strike me down. I, as I am now, would sooner die than falter in this resolve."_

He faltered.

He would soon die.

" _What I feel warms me unlike anything I've experienced. My life was a mire of uncertainty 'til I met you. Whatever we are—whatever this is, I feel it is good."_

"Ramza…" she wanted to scream at the heavens for this to stop.

Words were exchanged.

Ramza could not stand.

He looked skyward.

Their eyes met.

" _I am in love with you, Ovelia."_

She could not say it. Even now. Her mouth moved. Formed the words needed but they would not come.

One did. "Stop!" she commanded. Her voice harder than it'd ever been.

She dropped the hood. "I am Her Highness Princess Ovelia Atkascha, and I shall go with you."

Awe and reprisal. Those who wanted her gone, those who would have her stay.

"It is good to meet, Your Highness." A knight who must be their leader answered. "That puts all the lies in an awkward position, however."

"They have done so on my command." The words came naturally. "I have been accosted by every Order of every Sky. Monsters, thieves, Ebon Eye and Corpse Brigade."

"Quite the journey you've had."

"I will beseech Her Majesty for forgiveness. They only acted for my defense. So long as I entrust myself to you"— _die with you_ —"do not press further upon he, or any within these walls."

"You've my word as a knight." _As assassin._

It was calming. In its own strange way. To finally have a certainty in her life.

Over the protests she'd gone deaf to she descended. The great gates opened.

Lionsguard and Southern Sky followed.

She knelt next to Ramza. Worse off than she'd ever seen. Tears mixed in blood. "Help him," she ordered.

"Keep the boy where he is 'til you're safe with us, Highness," said the assassin.

"Don't…" Ramza said. His right hand rose unsteady.

"I must," she clasped his hand. Cold. So unlike the warmths before.

A scandal for a princess soon to be dead. A princess shouldn't. She wished she were born no princess. Yet, 'twas why she met him at all.

Words said quietly. The loudest she heard. "I love you."

She admitted it.

A tear slipped her cheek. Unto her hands.

She let go.

Selfish girl. Getting her way one last time.

She walked to her death.

* * *

 _GET UP!_

A stop spell could not have immobilized Ramza's limbs more effectively than all his wounds did. Everything his body did convinced him to stay down.

 _GET UP!_

Save one…

 _GET UP!_

His heart willed him continue and his mind agreed. Through the blinding pain he clenched himself upwards.

Ovelia was walking towards them.

" _I love you."_

Not now. He wasn't going to lose her now!

" _I don't know love, like you do. My parents? My family? I don't know if this is love but it's a feeling I never want to forget. One I pray continues forever. Every heartbeat, every flush of warmth and every smile."_

She'd finally found the truth of it and he was just not going to let her die right after!

 _"I don't need a brilliant man— I just need you."_

As much as he could force it, there were limits. His legs would not rise. His arms could not move.

" _It is I who decides my fate! Not you."_

This was not the fate she deserved. _So GET UP!_

" _He has been more honest with me than any man I know!"_

The trust they shared should not end like this.

" _You are a weight off my shoulders. But, truly, would you? Would you take my hand in marriage? The throne and Ivalice as yours?"_

He would.

" _I will make a vow of my own: whatever the nature of my birth, no matter the lines of war or should we flee… So long as our fates are entwined, and even should they part by some tragedy, I will do my best to make you happy too."_

There would be no happiness with Ovelia dead! There was one, last, desperate gamble he could make.

" _No purpose even in my living."_

She was his purpose. One worth the dangers to come.

" _Stop this please!"_

She'd done everything in her power to aid, even now. He could do no less.

" _And if I accept such pledge, do you reveal your friend, name and source for disbelief?"_

He'd given them. She accepted them.

He'd now accept the risks before him, even should be prove victorious. Magicks of different circles could not be woven together in excess. One might act as white mage and black mage, but could not add time mage to it. One's magick "roads" as they were could not handle such volatile differences.

" _And then you have us trust fallible man."_

He'd proven his weakness, plenty, hadn't he? This time he wished for strength.

Knightly skills, monk arts, these, too, could interfere. A clash of energies. Enough training could see their use, in some regards. Dycedarg, Cletienne, Loffrey. They could cast magicks of so many schools at once.

" _It's really not so hard, is it?"_

This was the easiest decision of his life.

What he was to do could—would cripple him. He may never cast magick again after this.

Life without Ovelia was more crippling.

" _You're too injured to move."_

She'd worried for him, cared for him after all he'd done to her. His body was small price to pay to repay her.

He concentrated on his magicks. Changing them through. Battered against the clogged "tunnels" where knightly and monkly ways had domination. His veins felt popped.

" _You took me by sword!"_

And he'd save her with it!

He forced the white magicks through. Squalled and pain that washed over his skin like a thin liquid. Forced hastened by a swiftness of time.

" _I would much prefer neither."_

He may not find way beyond war but one with her alive was one he could uphold!

His wounds did not close. Rather seemed to tear anew. He poured more, all the reserves kept full by his rationing through cracks.

 _"Who are you?"_

They've come too far to die now!

The dam burst!

Cuaraga welled over him and his patchwork skin set.

His veins were scratched between unholy cocktail of sand, glass, fire water, ice and iron shrapnel.

He did not waste breath or time on screaming. He did not have such luxuries. She did not have such luxuries.

 _So… GET UP AND PROTECT THE WOMAN YOU LOVE!_

Ramza Beoulve stood.

"Not one of you filthy cretins shall lay hand upon Ovelia whilst I stand." He could not even form fist. "I declared I would best your company. Come, I've only two hundred eighty more to go." Skin may be sewn but blood lost remained blood lost. His head was light, heavy, and every word in between. The winds themselves felt ready to blow him over.

All the pain was nothing compared to watching Ovelia walk away.

Nothing more relieving than seeing her stop, and turn back. Come to his side.

A smile, all they could share.

"I've had enough of this!" the leader roared in outrage at his own impotence. "Kill him and take her!"

"That was not our deal!" Ovelia pleaded to honorless dogs.

"I have wasted enough time for my own indulgences and your feet no longer march towards us either—so no more!"

His body was a wreck as was… So adding some summon magick to the conflict wouldn't have lasting consequences.

"Two hundred eighty to go."

"One hundred forty cut two ways."

Damn near the last voice Ramza expected caused him to swivel his head towards its source. Marching to stand alongside was Aldebrand Stone.

"Huh."

"Let's save the 'good to see you' for after."

"One hundred forty is a much more manageable number."

"Ninety-three," said Annabelle taking up alongside them.

Agrias: "Seventy."

Alicia: "Fifty-six."

Lavian: "Forty-six."

"Not quite like old times, eh Ramza?" Stone japed.

Before them the knights spread to surround and cut them off in any fashion. Bows were notched, spells began to chant.

Now would be a particularly fantastic time for some rallying speech.

All Ramza could muster was a sincere, "Thanks, everyone."

* * *

"They're fools," Cid stated watching the scene unfold below. Six against 300.

"Aye," Messam agreed.

Cid drew Excalibur. "I'm feeling rather foolish myself."

"You as well?"

Cid leapt from the battlements (his knees would feel that tomorrow) and made way to the line of desperate defense of Her Highness. Messam reached it first with use of teleport. The Silver Noble's blade had not been drawn as of yet but it was so eager.

"Enough!" Cid commanded and Messam followed.

"Your intrusion on the lands of Limberry will no longer be tolerated," said Messam. "You will be escorted back to Lesalia—or remain, face defeat and have every secret Her Majesty entrusted with you pried free."

Frustration burst on the face of the knight captain. "You lackwitted old men! We would return Her Highness to family, yet now you force her stay under flag of rebellion?"

"I will stay of my own will!" Her Highness stated.

"War is what you desire? All of you, war? How many families and lives will you ruin for whatever madness takes hold of you? You men above, when your villages are lost in flames for battles that cannot be won, will you place the blame on these men for hoisting it on you?"

"There will be no war if Lesalia does not start one," Cid told the man off.

"Limberry will take formal custody of Her Highness. If Lesalia wishes to discuss this, they may do so through diplomatic means and not at the point of three hundred swords."

The knight shook his head in feigned disgust. "Then let history declare this: the first day of the downfall of the famed Thunder God and Silver Noble. Men, we are leaving."

The tide of death that seemed so unending to Ramza ebbed. "Gods have mercy on Ivalice, for its people do not!" the knight shouted.

Condemnation in the cold.

They watched the knights depart. Far beyond sight of those on ground, and then at word of those at the walls above.

"Count Orlandeau—"

"Do not thank me—us," cid cut them off. "We should not be thanked for possibly bringing war to Ivalice."

"Then why?" asked Her Highness. "Why would you risk, so much, now?"

Cid looked at her. At them. Each of them willing to risk their life in impossible odds. Even one of the men Cid brought with him from Besselat. Fighting for a true cause.

"I am reminded, of old friends of mine," Cid mused. "I see much of them, in the bravery before me."

Cid knelt before Her Highness. "Your Highness," he said. "What I saw was an act of such foolish disrespect that even a child would be embarrassed by such mannerisms. You put yourself in needless danger, endangered the lives of every one of your guards and may have yet caused a war."

Sharp words slashed at him from the Lionsguard.

"It was also, without a doubt, one of the bravest and most selfless acts I have ever seen. It was a display that puts you up there with the finest heroes of Ivalice. Don't do it again."

"Your praise is too much, for what little I did."

"Your Highness, you have shown concern for your fellow man above your own life. The nobility of your deed is only matched by those you surround yourself with and I would offer my services to be counted among them. Within you, I see the greatness of your Lord Father. I see a Queen worth pledging my sword to." He hefted Excalibur and held it straight between his hands. "This sword, is your sword. Blade of the true king, or queen. Gifted to me by your Lord Father himself during the Fifty Years' War."

"That sword… will be in more use in your hands, than mine."

"Yes, Your Highness. House Orlandeau vows its support to Her Highness Princess Ovelia Atkascha."

Messam stepped over and knelt himself. "I've not the speech of the good Count, but my oath of loyalty and reasons so are all the same. Limberry shall fight for the cause of Her Highness Princess Ovelia Atkascha."

"May we not need to fight," Ovelia prayed.

Ramza crumbled into a heap behind her.

* * *

 **AN: That happened. Thanks for the Review! Maddash nonsense ends today no matter what. In-depth stuff to come.**

 **Maybe.**


	68. Chapter 67: An Unsettled Winter

**Chapter 67: An Unsettled Winter**

Ovelia's days after that harrowing resolve were split three ways. Meetings with Marquis Elmdore and Count Orlandeau regarding future preparations. Time spent worrying over Ramza. And resting.

So much of what the two men were lecturing her on were things she was simply incapable of understanding. She grasped the simplicities, of trade farming and war, but the particularities were just lost on her no matter how soft they offered. Or muchly she tried.

She would not make a very good Queen.

Worrying for Ramza's sake certainly took much out of her. She still had to keep the appearances of "concern, but not affection". No one else had yet seemed to grasp this, Lionsguard, caretakers, or nobles.

Even rest, was not as it should be. Nights were spent more awake than asleep. Shivering, even in the warmth.

She shared a little with Agrias. It helped. Yet… again… Ramza was the only one she could be fully open with.

Now it was the day that the 300 knights were expected to arrive back at Lesalia. A messenger would have brought attention to the Royal Court beforehand, but a direct confirmation with those involved would be in audience.

So now, back in Limberry's room she was presented with a new host of unpleasant options provided to her by the Marquis and Count. Annabelle and Alicia her guards for this day, the five of them fitted at the table.

"Your Highness," started the Marquis, "I must impress upon you the importance of making your decision within the day."

"I am aware of my responsibilities, Marquis Elmdore," she replied. She'd held a desire to speak it over with Ramza firstly but… "I will make clear my stance on this: There will be no talk of an alliance bound by marriage." Submitting to such would bolster the legitimacy of her claim. But Ramza… and she did not even want a claim, truly.

"Yes, Your Highness," he resigned defeat on that issue. "Then regarding the stance we shall take regarding our relationship to Her Majesty. Count?"

"We have laid out three plans regarding the intentions of your presence in Limberry and how they would be presented to Her Majesty," announced the Count. "Firstly: Declare that you are to be taken in as a ward of Limberry. Any actions undertaken by us, would then not fall upon your shoulders. If war turns against us, you could then plead ignorance of culpability and seek refuge with the White Lion. With Duke Goltanna and we pacified, they would fear little the strife your status could cause."

The day stated to be her date of birth may not be. "To trust in those who would have me killed is unwise. I have sought your assistance of my own accord and I will stand by you."

"Very well. The second course would be to make an official stance regarding the culpability of the Queen and her advisors in the attempt on your life. This would sway certain noble houses to your course, but would lead to war for certain. To say nothing of the lack of evidence regarding the crimes by which they stand accused."

Word against word and hers was so tiny and frail. Yet the course well and decided. "Continue."

"Lastly, would be making an official statement to renounce your adoption by King Omidera and remove yourself from the contrasting Prince Ornius's claim."

How she wished she could.

"However, with His Majesty having passed, there is no prior legal precedent to emancipate yourself from the decision. When you come of age, you would do so as a fully legal heir."

Her options were a host of undesirable decisions. Yet she must. "How might the third option be undertaken?" A flight of fancy. A small hope that somewhere she might be able to forget this all.

"It would require a direct visit to Lesalia," the Count grimly informed her. "At the very least."

To march towards treacherous family. A thousand enemies. "It is not much of a chance, then," she resigned herself to being a princess. "I presume the first option would just become the second, in time."

"In all likelihood."

Still, if there was some chance… "Let us attempt the first then," she commanded. "I will prepare statements for declarations for both options." Lavian had mostly handled the latter option, at least.

"Very well, Your Highness," Count Orlandeau replied. "Shall you visit Ser Ramza next?"

"Yes, Count Orlandeau."

Marquis Elmdore spoke, "Then I shall have a scribe meet you after your visit. At your leave?"

The exit permissions were granted and Ovelia and the Lionsguard was on her way to the castle infirmary. Celia and Lettie joined midway, offering their services as always.

With her display at the gates, the security had tightened significantly. Every corridor now hosted knights and samurai escorting castle servants and making sure every nook was covered.

It was overbearing in a sense. Compared to the mostly empty halls before. Everyone she passed now knelt as she walked. The weight of her station was nearly matched by the reassurances brought with it. A host of knights ready to fight and protect her, Ramza, and the Lionsguard.

It still did not feel enough. Ovelia wanted to make sure someone _she_ trusted was always beside him. So, she had Lavian stand guard for Ramza, alongside a number of Marquis Elmdore's retainers.

The knights and Lionsguard on duty knelt to her approach. "Your Highness," announced Lavian.

"Stand," she commanded to all. When they did, she asked, "Has his condition improved?" It could not have, or else word would have been brought.

Lavian confirmed that suspicion with a shake of her head. "But, that knight, came through recently."

The one who came to their aid—Ramza's aid. It was curious… She'd not been able to speak with the man before, despite attempts… "I would speak with him, then." She looked over the kneeling knights. "Who here knows where this knight would be?"

Her question earned a great deal of silence. But three knights looked ready to speak, exchanging glances. Eventually, one answered, "He is part of His Excellency Count Orlandeau's entourage, Your Highness. He goes by the name, Rock, if I'm not mistaken."

"Thank, you, ser," she replied. "Keep safe, Lavian."

"Milady."

She was familiar with the partition where the Count and his men were sleeping. He and the Marquis made sure of that.

So after another period of walking and so much kneeling they arrived at the corridor.

"Your Highness," the woman among the two knights standing guard answered. "I shall fetch His Excellency immediately."

"There is no need," said Ovelia. "I have request for the knight Rock, to accompany me elsewhere."

"Rock?" she reacted questioning. "Yes, Your Highness, of course, Your Highness. I will do so."

She hurried down the hall. Her steps going, the only noise.

It did not take long for her to return, with the very knight Ovelia sought. The two knelt.

"Ser Rock," she said.

"What do you require of me, Your Highness?" he answered.

"A moment of time." She looked at the other knights. "For a conversation."

He nodded. "Yes, Your Highness."

It was a welcome relief not to have to force the issue. "Celia, Lettie, a location that is private, if you would?"

"Yes, Your Highness," the two replied in a unison.

By their lead, the little entourage was given to the castle library. Not quite the repository of knowledge Orbonne was, but there was a fair amount of fully stocked bookcases.

"Leave us," she commanded to the two servants and without word they departed. "Alicia, Annabelle, to the door, please." The two did as instructed. Ovelia took a seat at the desk within the library. The chair was padded, the only one in the room. Rock took a seat nearby. "I would ask you: How do you know Ramza?"

"He fought for Your Highness's sake. Quite a brave man."

Ovelia frowned. She'd thought the lack of resistance earlier might continue… "Then what does the name Tietra, mean to you?"

He stiffened considerably at that name. A long, drawn-out sigh prefaced his next words, "How much… how much did he tell you?"

"Of her. Her brother. His own last name—his sister" she said. "I spent a number of months alongside Alma, at the monastery."

He slowly nodded with each declaration she gave. "I don't know what circumstances led him from being Templar to being Lionsguard but he's put a great deal of faith in you, Your Highness."

 _Almost too much._ "We have not had time to… fully discuss some of his past."

"Should you not be asking this of him, when he recovers?"

"I shall," she said. "But for now, I would speak of him from your perspective."

"I will answer as I am able." The topic caused him to shift uneasily in his seat.

Even Ramza had not fully explained it to her. Was she really expecting him to?

"Why did you lend aid to Ramza? To me?"

That question seemed to ease him somewhat. "'Tis not so galant," he said. "I waited 'til he was bloodied too much."

"Still, you came. Why?"

"Because he did it for you. Would do it for me. Would for anyone he thought was worth fighting for. He's never shied away from rendering aid when he can." He looked over at the Lionsguard. "Were there any more of you, to escort Her Highness?"

"No," Alicia replied.

"Yet you all made it." He looked back at her. "Due in no small part to him, I presume."

In a myriad of ways that was true.

"We were cadets, freshly loosed from the akademy to fight Corpse Brigade. We'd learned to fight, to cooperate. Aye, better than the men we sought on the battlefield. But they were still hardened killers. Desperate and dangerous."

It sounded terrible.

"The first thing he does, is, he offers them a chance to surrender." The man grinned a bit. "He always did that. Wanted peace over glory."

Oh? She hid her surprise. He'd been quite gruff and determined, since she'd met him.

"But they rejected it, each and every time. So, our first battle. We were eager and excited and scared. We fought. We won. Ramza drew first blood, and last. We all made it. Our first battle and we were all alive." Pride swelled in his voice. "No other akademy team made it to Eagrose with everyone they left Gariland with." A small twinge of sadness overtook him on that. "We even picked up someone along the way—it's how and why Ramza thought coming here to Limberry was a good idea, I presume."

"I know Ramza partook in rescuing the Marquis."

"Led it, against orders and with blessing—but that's another issue." He paused, seemed to muster some courage. "The Corpse Brigade made a daring raid at the Beoulve Manse in Eagrose. Penetrated security, took Tietra hostage. We made way to rescue her, but she was shot dead. On elder brother Zalbaag's command and with trigger pulled by the very man we'd rescued. We killed him. And every member of the Northern Sky alongside him. I'd never seen more a fury in Ramza and Delita's eyes than at that moment. The fort went ablaze, Tietra, and Delita were lost."

Delita was the one accompanying them at first. Best to let Ramza reveal that.

"We returned to Gariland. Ramza was picked up by the Knights Templar, abandoned us." Rock scoffed. "He wasn't the only one hurting. Fulke just let him run off, like he and Delita and Gylda always did. We separated. And now, we meet."

"Thank you, for telling me this." It lent some clarity, to her thoughts on the matter.

He nodded. "When I saw him leap from the gatehouse I could scarce believe it. Not only him, here, and a dragoon at that, but that he'd be so… reckless."

A word she'd heard too much about recently. "You said it was in line with how you remembered him," she repeated.

"Quite, yet…" a frown deepened on his lips, "like how one would remember the pages of a text. The grand picture the words paint but not the particularities of each and every word. The minutiae of 'thes' and missing 'ands'." He shook his head. "I cannot articulate it fully, but it was like a Ramza not-quite a Ramza." A flare of recognition light in his brown eyes. "Like the slight mistakes a mimic would make on the battlefield."

"M-mimic?" she blundered out.

Alicia coughed to divert attention. "Mimicry is often considered the 'peak' of skill, for combat."

"It does not sound as such."

"A mimic is trained in every form of traditional Ivalician combat. Squiredome, knighthood, magicks. After extensive training, they can utilize every recognized skillset in battle."

"That sounds exceedingly useful." She'd read about the combat prowess of the Sword Saint and Knight Gallant. Yet nothing about mimes…

"It would appear so but…" Alicia grimaced a bit. "The explanation, for Ser Ramza's injuries, was that he overused his mana veins trying to fight. Well, a mime, has the capacity to do far more than what incapacitated Ramza. It is a difficult, dangerous road that few ever seek to walk. For, simply… little gain."

Life-threatening, and worse? "Is it limited, in some capacity?"

"A mime's own actions in battle are more dictated by the actions of others than their own. Some manner by which they weave their magicks. In a full-scale battle, it could ruin formations, turn the whole battle. It is, simply put, inefficient for all the effort to require it."

Illuminating but… "What exactly does that have to do with Ramza?"

"Oh," said Rock, "it was like I was watching Ramza mimic himself. I don't know how else to put it. The extremes without what's in-between?" He sighed at the words. "Mayhap I should have taken my eloquence lessons closer to heart."

And without knowing him before this… there was little for her to compare him to. One thing, did come to mind… "He has… fought heavily, in our shared time. Every fight he came near to death." At the time, she thought it was to protect her…

"His stagger at the gates was the closest I've ever seen him come to the Gates of Paradise."

 _Don't say that!_

His words in that small and stuffy room.

They weren't aimed at her alone, were they…?

"Thank you for your time, Ser Rock. You may leave us."

"Yes, Your Highness." He scurried away. This situation made him far-too uncomfortable.

Ovelia eased herself back as well. Her eyes fluttered over some of the books. Some she knew—had read. Others seemed new and uninteresting. If there was one thing Orbonne had in abundance it was fascinating tomes to peruse.

"Alicia, Annabelle, I think I will spend my time here, 'til supper."

"Yes, Your Highness."

It was a far less boring way than sitting in her room.

* * *

Ovelia finished reading the first chapter of _The Exemplar's Creed_ and put the book down with concealed disgust. She'd never read a more ravid debasing of the nobility in her life. Why had Marquis Elmdore even retained such a scandalous tome? It, and all the ones she'd lightly read over the hours had been some manner of dull or extreme. Sometimes both.

She shelved the book in its proper place and began looking for a new read…

"Your Highness," Alicia interrupted. "It will soon be time for the evening meal."

Perhaps some real conversation would be enlivening. "Very well. I wish to see Ser Ramza before we meet."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Another journey. Lionsguard and servants to follow. Another set of unwanted kneeling.

She had to get used to it. Had too…

At the door Agrias met her. The news, same as ever—the door opened. The elderly white mage stepped out. "He's awake."

Everything within screamed in exhilaration. "May I see him?" her voice did not contain excitement and she did not care.

The old man grumbled. "He's weak—exceptionally so. Too much excitement would be unwise."

No. No, she was sure her presence would help. It always did seem to help him. "I understand," she paid. "I will keep my time brief."

"Your Highness," Agrias stepped close, and whispered, "I know you are worried, but think of the situation at hand."

"I have," she lied. "Step aside."

Agrias stoically did so and the white mage cleared away as well.

The familiar sight of the infirmary and the unfortunate sight with Ramza on a bed in the corner. He moved.

"Y-Your Highness…" Ramza struggled out. "How are you?"

Words of concern for her.

He'd nearly died, yet again, and he put her before himself once more.

She gave him a smile, wide and genuine. "I am well." She walked closer. He was near as pale as the bedsheets he shook under.

"I'll be on my feet soon enough." He tried to match her smile… but his lips were cracked and broken.

"I will visit regularly." Never did she want to leave his side like this. "Get well soon."

"I shall."

Short, small. Yet comforting all the same. With a small nod she left. Smile dropping from her face.

The day did not seem so lackluster anymore.

* * *

"This leaves us quite cross," the Queen declared to her three most trusted retainers. "To think our niece would be misled so severely by a kidnapper. For Count Orlandeau and Marquis Elmdore to brush aside the responsibility they should uphold." Her royal gaze settled into a glare on the three kneeling men. "Give us answers."

"Your Majesty," Duke Larg said firstly, "the treasonous acts they have undertaken are unfortunate, but not unforeseen. Count Beoulve and Lord Command Beoulve already have plans in mind, only requiring your approval to enact."

"It saddens us that it has come to this, that they could not see peace. But if they presume for war, then so be it. Let them know war. Tell us, of your grand and glorious strategy, brothers Beoulve."

Dycedarg answered. "Your Majesty. The cornerstone of Limberry's defense shall be Fort Besselat. Strong in all directions. Its fastness held during the siege of the Ordallians."

"You mean to take it," she correctly presumed. "Besselat has been granted to the Order of the Southern Sky on the Crown's mercy. It is only right that the Crown Prince is owed what is his. How then, shall you reclaim it?"

"Forges loyal to our cause work tirelessly to forge the new armors and shields we require. The men train and ready. Furs and foods are bought and stored. Winter shall give us time to prepare, and strike."

"When then shall you strike?"

"On your word."

"Very good." She split between the Beoulves. "We would have these rebels brought to heel as soon as able."

Dycedarg's plan. "To move our men requires time. I shall command the attack happen at the onset of Cancer. Should we take Besselat in good time, we would threaten the grain fields of Limberry at planting season. They cannot make war with a knife at their bellies. This shall bring them to the negotiating table."

"What then, if they hold the poor princess hostage?"

"They shall quickly lose any legitimacy and support from their ranks and those they seek to court."

Her Majesty gave a small nod. "Lord Commander Beoulve, what say you to this plan?"

"The advantages are great," Zalbaag answered. "But I believe it is too ideal. Even if Count Orlandeau does not man its walls it shall be garrisoned with stout veterans and skilled men-at-arms. A siege could last months—years, rather than mayhap the day presumed otherwise."

"And your suggestion is?"

"We make a strike inwards, across the Fuse Plains. If we set a large enough encampment, we can enact the same threat on Limberry's field as taking Fort Besselat would."

"It would leave the knights undertaking this task exposed," Her Majesty understood. "Vulnerable."

"With the unpredictable state of Zeltennia, I am confident supply lines could be maintained."

"Your concern is noted." The Queen sat back on her throne. Eyes closed. Mind working. "My decision is cast. Count Beoulve, see that Fort Besselat is returned to us."

Dycedarg did not breach a smile on his lips. "At once, Your Majesty."

* * *

Alma Beoulve awoke. Her mind was fog. Her hands and feet were in a crushing pain. She moved to rub them better but struggled against bonds. Bonds she could not see. A small, dull orangeness sparked somewhere but nothing else caught her eye. Something covered her head, some sack, she'd not noticed to concentrate on her limbs. And such did bind her mouth as well. She attempted to scream for help but earned only a laugh—and cough in reply.

"Save your efforts, little miss," came a man's voice. Older, somewhat refined in its tone. "Struggle and you'll get a guard coming to put you to sleep."

She muffled a reply. The intent had been "let them try".

But it earned a chuckle. "Be good, you'll get your food, and drink."

Lucavi were walking this land and he was concerned with food!

She grunted harder.

This time she was met with a sigh. "I'd rather prefer you keep awake, girl. This cell has been dreadfully boring and some proper conversation is hard to come by." He gave an audible scoff. "These knights have no respect for the spoken word."

Maybe the Lucavi and slain her and dumped her body in the underworld with the most obnoxious noble in history.

Alma struggled against her bonds...

* * *

Delita Heiral knew pain.

It was the closest thing to family he had left and his body ached in the same way it'd had when he awoke on Mullonde.

No Tietra to greet him or Lucavi tormenting him. He was alive.

In the vaults of Orbonne. The darkness. Hushed breaths and hurried words slowly came in to focus.

"Answer," demanded a knight. The woman. The one who'd accompanied Alma.

Delita gargled out—spat out. He hadn't drowned. They hadn't. No light remained and his body was cold. Cold like the river. But no thrash in water did he move.

"Answer or your Templar friends die."

She may well have sword at his throat.

"What of Alma?" he asked. His voice strained, but not broken. He'd not been out that long this time.

"This is not the place for your questions, Templar." The point of a sword drew to his neck for certain this time. "Your compatriots claim you the most knowledgeable about that… esper. Speak, or never do so again."

Two at least. Could he turn this? Not physically, not as he was now… Even with no light she had to be adjusted better to her surroundings.

Half-truths and lies then. "'Twas a Lucavi."

"'Twas Leviathan the esper."

"'Twas Leviathan the Corrupt. Demon-kin to Zebbev the Condemnor who I returned to his fell master a year ago."

She barked a laugh. "Make a better lie. This one near killed you yet you bested another?"

"We'd thrice as many men as this and ended with less than are alive now." He stretched the truth. "We came here to contain and stop the Lucavi's return when you and that knight forced us into unwanted pursuit." A truth in a certain way.

"Do not pass this mistake to us," she hissed.

He counted himself lucky she did not pierce his neck. "I will tell you everything…"

* * *

Marquis Messam Elmdore de Limberry sat in his private study. Surrounded by books. Light shone only by a dulling fire and roaring candle.

The day's misfortunes had tired him and he required time with Gemini's glow to retain strength.

Even in the shadowed room, the violet sheen of the Holy Stone overpowered the fire's light attempting to overtake it.

Truly splendid.

His thoughts traced back the mistakes that brought him here (as his fingers traced the roughed edges of the crystal).

Her Highness's offer to save the Beoulve was quite the sight. Brave and selfless, but also foolish and shortsighted. The Queen would simply pin the princess's demise on Cid and he and demand their resignation or heads. Best then to be active regarding the threats facing them and hold some leverage of authority.

She'd taken some of their advice, asked for more. Receptive and willing to learn. If . She could stand to be a tad more bold and decisive on issues, but it was a start.

Which made her stance on marrying such a frustrating prospect. The one thing she was unfettered in was not marrying and it was simply the most important duty she could fulfil. There were enough enterprising candidates. A secured political marriage and they could see Duke Goltanna's lands retaken and secured before spring was well under way.

She knew her duty, so this obstinate refusal was aggravating, and quite unfortunately akin to the Queen's badgering.

A low whistle disturbed his reflection and Messam secured the stone to his chest. "Arrive," he commanded the two who'd sent the signal.

Celia and Lettie appeared. Kneeled.

"Report."

They did.

Not one thing suspicious, they said.

A suspicious occurrence in itself. Even when there was no princess in these halls there were disturbances.

"Are there any oddities?"

"Yes," said Celia.

He nodded. "Is it important?" If one of the servants was running off with sheets again…

"It is perhaps the most important matter."

The Princess then. "What bothers Her Highness?"

"A caught breath, a reddened face, an inquiry too personal."

A fever? "To the point, ladies."

The two exchanged glances.

"Her Highness spends time at the Beoulve boy's side," said Lettie.

"Too much time," Celia continued. "There is worry for a friend, or confidant."

"And other."

"She favors him," said Celia.

"Fancies him, more like," corrected Lettie.

"She does not wish to marry…"

"...because she has her eyes set on one already."

The ceiling may well have collapsed for the weight that now fell upon his shoulders.

And the sudden clarity like a cloudless sky.

Her mythril-strong refusal to even talk of marriage.

And Dycedarg Beoulve's devious scheme.

The man's ploys were as apart as the speed of chocobo and man's, but this time endurance and cleverness had won out.

Simple chance that the half-blooded Beoulve heard the plot to assassinate Her Highness? No, he'd been led directly to her. Zalbaag's pursuit had done well to seem threatening but never been (a mirrored lack of threat outside the gates). Bring her directly to the man who'd owe him debt. Weasel his way into everyone's favors. Summon forth all those who would oppose the White Lion. Then strike.

Ingenious.

The more he thought of it, the more it affirmed correct. The knightly friend in Cid's group. The lack of specific details when pressed. The conveniences and luck to come so far.

Now then, how best to counteract this? Best when one had known spy in ranks to feed wrongs and misinformation. Turn an enemy into unwitting ally.

"Let us root out the truth," he ordered the pair. Even if he had good faith his idea was correct, acting too rashly was a thought he'd just chided the princess for. No, he'd scour and confirm, and act, if necessary. "Confirm what you can between she and he. Keep an eye on that Rock knight. The Lionsguard as well, none party to them is beyond suspicion. And recheck the castle's workers. We cannot be too careful when Dycedarg Beoulve is our enemy."

"Yes, Your Excellency," the two replied in unison.

"You are dismissed."

They vanished with a flicker of candlelight.

Messam caressed the hardened edges of the Gemini auracite. It's luster in the light was almost intoxicating.

* * *

 **AN: Belated and rushed out. Corrections/thanks later.**


	69. Chapter 68: March

**Chapter 68: March**

Ramza's time spent recuperating was split between visits, lectures and bouts of trying boredom. The last stung most of all, as he'd grown too accustomed to injury and pain to pay much mind to it anymore. Being stuck in bed without act to do gnawed at him. He was not even allowed to handle books on his own, even after Ovelia volunteered some volumes to him.

He knew why. The three caretakers had certainly seen fit to repeat it to him. The white mage went into the specifics of how Ramza had almost ruptured his mana veins with the reckless and untrained casting and even now they had worn dangerously thin. The monk had berated him for the half-formed curaga that had healed his external injuries, yet left internal bleeding. They'd needed to recut his flesh to properly treat his innards. And the chemist had been vocal about disease and infection and a thousand kin to the Black Death Ramza's improper care for wounds had teetered on for a month.

Gylda and Dietrich certainly would have delivered the news with a better manner.

It was refreshing in a rather odd sense he couldn't quite place it on.

Mayhap simply because he was alive to hear it?

Though, there was one thing he wanted to hear most of all that circumstances prevented.

Ovelia's visitations had been chaste, proper talks and well wishes. (And bringing him some books she'd found interesting.) Even if seeing her was a welcome relief, he missed their chats and intimacy.

Stone hadn't shown his face either. A myriad of options presented themselves why (appearances, blame, guilt) but ruminating on them felt pointless when he was certain to announce them at some point.

The Lionsguard had also shown themselves around a few times.

Annabelle came around first, with something that wasn't quite an apology. It was difficult for her to admit… but the alacrity she jumped to help Ovelia, and him, was enough.

Lavian kept him apprised of the developing situation. They were expecting a reply from the Queen's faction any day now. Or the conditions of Limberry reading itself for war. Troublesome news, all. He often spent most of his resting reflecting on what she'd told him.

Alicia only spoke to him briefly with nothing more than passing well wishes. The divide in loyalties meant he hadn't gotten to know the Lionsguard as well as he'd liked, honestly.

Agrias came with a report on how the Lionsguard training regime was continuing. Which was odd… She was looking forward to matching holy sword with him once more. (Which got an interjection from the monk on duty).

The holy sword wouldn't have given him the edge he needed on his absurd defiance. Nothing could have, simply speaking. It had been foolish to an extreme and he could scarce believe he'd done it.

He'd heard love could make one act out of character.

Never thought it could apply to himself 'til he was willing to die for another.

Duty, glory, honor. All the "right" reasons to die for. Drilled into his head at home and the Beoulve estate. What Lord Father died for…

Would Lord Father have prefered to die for mother's sake?

No… he'd have pushed to live… the eight of them…

Beoulve shouldn't point sword at Beoulve but he'd be Ovelia's shield.

Neither the Marquis or Count ever came. A cross of blessings as he couldn't much avoid the Count's questions as he was.

More curiously were the castle retainers who came by to… well… compliment and praise him.

It got rather tiresome (and so much of it seemed false) that Ramza requested no more visitors he did not approve of first. The doctors were quick to agree on that.

Aside from familiar faces, the only ones granted entrance were servants bringing him (limited) meal and drink. It was the pair assigned to Ovelia: Celia, and Lettie. Only ever one at a time, but they brought him what he requested—and was allowed—and made light talk as he ate.

Lettie attempted to actually spoonfeed him at first but he vehemently rejected that. He could still move a spoon under his own power.

(There was also something odd about the way they moved their hands. But tired eyes made many tricks.)

Sleep was difficult to actually get. Laying in bed all day left him fully invigorated and awake for night. He redoubled his thoughts, went over his past actions… and listened to his heart beat. Anything to slowly… make his mind… rest…

"Wake."

A shove forced the light rest Ramza had fallen into aside.

"Stone…" Ramza spoke into the darkness. Only the vague figure of his old friend nearby in the unlit room. Moonlight did not reach deep enough, through the curtains.

"Aye."

To the point then. "Is there a reason you're coming in at night?"

"Best not overhear."

Right, of course. How silly not to realize that. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you turn from Knights Templar to honorary Lionsguard?"

The heart of the matter. "Do you remember, what I once thought of Lord Brother Dycedarg?"

"Aye—what is your point?"

The point entirely. "The Church has turned its back on righteous cause as easily as my brother did. They gave order for me to kidnap Her Highness, save her from assassins sent by my brother, and deliver her to Duke Goltanna and instigate the war Wiegraf once spoke of."

The blurted truth stunned Stone into silence. His words, were unsteady. "Gods… Or men? I saw two Templars, a year ago. Thought to ask them of you, thought the better of it. A good choice, as it were."

"Who?"

"Lady Meliadoul Tengille and Lord Folmarv Tengille himself. I sparred with the former; the latter met with Count Orlandeau."

Right, yes… when Meliadoul left for Bervenia… Mayhap why the Count had suspicion on the Church? "How have you been, Stone?"

"Better than you."

Hardly few who weren't. "Is that it?"

"I've been working studious to bring pride to my name, rank and peerage. As I told you, and everyone when we first met. Most of us don't end up becoming personal guard to a princess."

"You have now."

A brief bout of silence settled in on that. "Fulke went north, out of Gariland. Dietrich and Pelinne left for Lionel. Gylda, eventually came through Besselat and went towards Zeltennia. I lost contact with her some months ago. With the Blackrams slain, I fear the worst." A sigh tore from him. "We never saw Margarete in Gariland."

All things he knew. "And Delita yet lives."

Stone took in a deep breath at the news. "And Tietra?" his words just barely a whisper.

"Did not share her brother's luck."

The fire doused. "I see," Stone solemnly replied.

"Dietrich and Pelinne are well. Gainfully employed. Gylda, by manner of meeting Delita, joined us in the Knights Templar."

"If they are in Church's holdings, what assurances they will not be used to coerce your cooperation?"

"Delita gave his word they'd been protected."

"And where is he?"

 _Most likely,_ "Lionel."

"Your life is a strange thing, Ramza."

 _True._ "There has been no word on Margarette either. As for Fulke..?" Ramza's turn to take a deep breath. "Dead. At my hands."

The content of their conversation seem to have prepared him.

Stone still, nearly did stumble at that. "How…?" he gasped out. So low it may have been imagined.

"Errors. Helmets. He joined with anti-crown rebels and heretics in Lesalia. I was sent to stop the latter. Ended the former."

Stone leaned against the wall. "So… this is to be your redemption, is it? For Tietra, for Fulke?"

It was never that. It'd become something else but…

"Rushing so blindly in without heed for the consequences…" Stone barked a laugh. "I was more right, than I realized…"

"About what?"

"You don't?—" he stopped himself short. "Right, of course… ha… I spoke with Her Highness. She asked me about you, before you… kidnapped her, it seems. I told her how you felt different—then and now."

"Straighten your words, Stone," Ramza near-demanded. This vagary was too annoying to stomach.

"You've all the pieces to figure this puzzle out," he remarked. "Consider not telling you my payback for leaving us."

Without another word, Stone vanished like a ninja.

He had some new dire tidings to consider this night…

* * *

Delita couldn't undertake much of moving his body. His head seemed to work (his eyebrows certainly wiggled when he wanted to) but everything else was useless.

A rather unfortunate situation when his life was being threatened.

It had not the feeling of waking in Mullonde's comfortable bedding and lacking power to move his limbs.

Did he even have limbs?

But he would have certainly bled dry if such…

His mental acuity seemed too precise. He'd been unconscious—struck some hard surface. Mayhap this was the Underworld after all.

Or mayhap he'd grown uncomfortably familiar with sleep brought by force.

Yes, that had to be it.

His mind focused back on moments prior.

" _I will tell you everything…"_

And then now.

He was clearly rendered unconscious again. A spell seemed likely. And would explain away the lack of feeling in anything. Yes, he was hurt, everywhere. _Again_.

He was also extraordinarily hungry. His stomach growled.

Joined a chorus in the dark.

The noise hadn't drawn the ire of the dame this time.

Time to think.

Isilud and someone else was alive. The dragoon? Or was she counting Margarette?

Alma was… missing.

Leviathan had escaped. Stolen her. With the Stone—stones.

Damnation, the Lucavi were in the Sones. They had to be. There was no giant of metal broken here.

This matter blinded the Church more than this darkness shrouded him.

And Alma… Would be forced as another. Most assuredly. There was no reason other.

He had two allies and one enemy. No one talked. A few swishes of water moving, but no words. Maddening, to tell.

Talking, was his only recourse. But the knight did not want the truth.

So tell her what she wanted to hear.

Just mix it with truth enough.

Where would the Lucavi go with Alma? Why had he not summoned his brethren on the spot? Different? Or was Delita wrong?

Palamedes and that Fell Knight had both been taken over. What had they in common? Men. Knights.

Alma was neither. Perhaps that deflected an immediate summoning?

No other Stone had reacted to Templar. It chose the old man over any of them.

An old man begging for life.

Life forever more.

Did it call to those whose life ebbed? Would a Stone whisper to him now? Why had any of the others not done so…?

Were… were they all taken…?

The thought chilled his numb body.

Even if simple reasoning stopped it.

Why had they fought and slain one of their own then?

It would also mean that the creatures could mold themselves back into human form. Not an impossibility, as they expanded their size as they did.

Lord Folmarv, Cardinal Delacroix and the High Confessor were both absent their time at Nelveska. Could they?

The Cardinal's defensive snap over the auracite….

The Church had been infiltrated by its greatest enemy. How many more Templars fell victim to Lucavi? Was this whole search into Orbonne meant to silence him for destroying Zebbev?

Surely, there were less, roundabout ways! The Leviathan had not even seen fit to end this (or so he feigned hoped).

"I will talk…" he breathed into the darkness.

"I have heard your talk," the dame replied. "Save breath. It is a luxury now."

No light. No air.

What had he said? Was she lying? Or was his mind not there?

Had all his injuries finally caught up to him?

Remember.

She claimed it esper. He corrected it Lucavi.

Scoffing disbelief he response.

He'd slain the prior. She would not accept.

Their mission was to stop them.

Told her—only her. The other dame had passed in the battle.

Yes… yes… his memories grew into focus.

Elder Simon survived by a thread's thin line. Had he passed by now?

He told the woman deeper into the Church's action. Find Lucavi: stop Lucavi. No matter how she pressed her blade he would not relent on that. Indulging her there was not wise.

Why was it not wise? He couldn't remember.

Isilud lived. Leg shattered in the fight and falls. The dame had the only weapon left. She'd torn his tabard and bound him with it.

She threatened again. Delita slide his words. The Lucavi absconded with Alma. Whether Lucavi or esper the Church was hunting them for true.

She believed that.

Margarette lived. No words to escape her bloodied lip and broken jaw. Her speech forever more may yet be slurred and broken.

Where did the Lucavi go? Now, he realized, to its kin. Then, he had but a gasp. He lied. Towards the north. Towards Nelveska.

She struck him for that. He'd lost feeling of his left hand from it.

Dragoon Davian had his armor crushed at some time. He could not move his arms and his boots had been pulled free by the dame.

He told the truth. He had no idea where it would go. Beyond find more.

It had more now.

She, still convinced of her esper thought, went to summoners. Gariland. The Royal Akademy for the Magickal arts held a number of promising fledglings…

That other squire was helping her with this. (Rad or something). He'd no idea he'd been apprenticing to a monster like that… He was too eager too help…

She'd gotten what she wanted. But one thing left.

He threw up his argument to delay her vengeance.

Surely it would be the Church who pulled them from this wreckage.

He knew the preparations the Northern Sky made for the princess. For Ramza and Zalbaag. They would not spare time to aid in excavating a Church.

He would vouch for her, he lied. Being dug free surrounded by the bodies of Templars and priests? The Church would have every intention to blame her for this.

Ridiculousness, really. She said as such.

But true enough. Those who survived the Lucavi were few in number and every one was needed. Letting them live, was the only way she could live. Could find Alma. Redeem herself. (It seemed right. It would explain the situation.)

She agreed.

But not before cutting him once more.

Sickening lack of honor amongst the highborn. As always.

What little food was consumed. What little drink had. There was no hurry to sip from the puddles formed by the Lucavi's water.

And quiet. And hunger. And thirst.

There was no sign of time. No magicks to free them. Consciousness drifted in and out so fluidly Delita could scarce recall which was which.

Too much to pray the whole situation some nightmare...

* * *

Dycedarg Beoulve sat at the head seat of the war council within the Northern Order's barracks of Lesalia Castle. Bestrald sat to his right; Zalbaag to his left. The remaining dozen seats taken by various generals and commanders and supply officers required.

Duke Larg and Zalbaag both insisted he be the one to delegate the meeting, and he was not in the habit of declining this honor.

The troop readiness was given first. Zalbaag announcing it, with appropriate commentary from the relevant commanders when spoken about. The Knights, Dragoons, White Mages and Black Mages required for their initial attack and been marshalled up just barely. At considerable expense to other units for their campaign.

The chocobo knights at the ready lost a goodly portion of their number to participate in clearing the walls. Once Zalbaag forced the gates open, their would not be enough chocobo knights to hold the foyer alone. They would have to refocus the magick unit to support them.

Zalbaag's teleport troop had been assembled with no difficulties. House Beoulve always kept a group of loyal footman trained just for this purpose.

There was some talk of distributing members of the assembled teleport team amongst other areas of the attack, they were all exceptionally skilled in multiple avenues of combat, but it was quieted with simple explanation: The requirements to be an effective teleport troop were high and usable combatants low. Every other approach could be compensated without severe compromises in some way, but not this. They had no siege equipment to take the gate, and magicks would be ineffective. It was the key unit of the whole attack, and precisely why Zalbaag was leading it. He would take the Besselat gatehouses without trouble.

Auxiliary units were in abundance. They were overflowing with White Mages and Chemists. Everyone could accept aid in restoring life, it seemed. There were enough Time Mages and Monks to cover duties as well. Only a handful of Mystics were able-bodied enough to accompany. Not many sought that path. Its uses rather limited, all told.

(Only a few other classes were in order. Most often as personal retinue members.)

With matters of men settled, matters of metal were next.

Fovoham and come through with the requested production of shields. A curiosity glance from Duke Larg and confirmed the delivery in requested numbers but quality was just not something they had time to test at the moment. A few faulty shields were inevitable, moreso when a job is rushed, as it had. But they only needed to hold together for one battle. Well within reason. Any flaws could be worked on the march south, as well.

It would be well worth the extra gil funded to the Grand Duke when they had the Fort taken.

The standard kits of weapons and armors had been readied. The portion taken from Limberry's own stores a pleasant bonus. Wagons and carts to carry men and their supplies were bought, made and seized. Enough food for the march, and half a weeks in reserve. Taking the Fort's larder would feed them.

Combat-trained chocobos were provided by their riders. Workbirds had been prepared to transport the carts and cargo to their destination.

Everything was working as intended.

A worrisome notion.

"I would pose the question," Zalbaag spoke up. "What if we are unable to breach the defenses of the Fort before our food runs low?" (The river would provide water. No need for drink concerns.)

"Calling your skills into question, are you?" remarked Baron Volmus.

Zalbaag ignored the comment. "Count Orlandeau will command a stout defense. If our initial foray falters, we will not be able to continue."

"Count Orlandeau—Cid, let us not give the traitors their titles," Dycedarg corrected. "Cid was last reported at Limberry Castle."

"Aye, and we've more than enough time for him to return to Besselat."

"Indeed," Dycedarg nodded, "but I see no reason why he would. The security of the Fort is a low priority compared to securing Limberry's western borders and making attempts at reconciling the situation in Zeltenia."

Duke Larg followed the line of reasoning, "The turmoil in the wake of Duke Goltanna's unfortunate passing is a closer, worrying issue, that Elmdore and Cid must consider. Our responses from Chancellor Glevane have indicated that Cid is planning an expedition to take the Zeltennia Castle for his own."

"New information? When?"

"An envoy brought it to my hands before this meeting proceeded."

'Twould have been preferable to learn this prior… "I am skeptical of such reports," Zalbaag admitted. "The Duke's death is under no certain terms and Chancellor Glevanne's motives remain suspect."

"I agree with Zalbaag, on this matter," Dycedarg put his support in. "We cannot fully rely on the possibility Glevanne writes the truth. Potentialities must be addressed."

"What do you suggest?"

"We would require Her Majesty's approval, but positioning a small detachment near Zeltenia's borders would let us direct where we want Cid's attention to be drawn."

Zalbaag shook his head. "We've not the numbers to divide so." Not without calling for reserves and conscripts. Too unreliable.

"No attack so full, worry not on that," Dycedarg smoothly transitioned to placation. "Just an encampment."

"If Southern Sky moves to strike?"

Sub-Commander Tallis laughed. "Those cowards will just hold in their forts 'til we come and clear them out."

It was an unlikely event they did sally forth.

"Desperation and fear take root easily. Lead men to rash action."

"Well said," Duke Larg complimented him. "Entirely, why, I believe, we should."

"Your Grace?"

"If the forts in Zeltennia fear an invasion, as well they should, they might send word for reinforcements. Where then, but the trusted Fort Besselat to draw from?"

A surprisingly shrewd stratagem. Too shrewd for the Duke who'd commanded logistics in the war to make on his own.

"Decreasing Besselat's defenders in advance is wise, but drawing them north may be dangerous. If they grow too bold they may launch an attack on their own. Especially once Besselat is taken—revenge will burn hotly in their chests. I feel a daring strike on Lesalia might come, if the worst should occur."

"An outsides danger," said the Duke. "Lesalia's defenses are firm, and surely the Southern Order would lack adequate supplies to campaign?"

"Almost assuredly, Your Grace. Nevertheless, it must be considered before we move further."

Duke Larg did consider it, deeply. "Dycedarg, your thoughts?"

"We are engaged in a conversation that branched from 'fear and desperation'," he pointed out. "Scared and desperate would be what any of Zeltennia would fear upon news of Besselat's downfall. Retribution at Lesalia would not be without merit, foolish an idea as it is." A rather neutral response. "If our attacks are timed perfectly, we may yet take Besselat without fearing reprisal."

"How?"

"'Twould take two days for messenger to reach, from Zeltennia to Besselat. And two days, at earliest, for an army to reach back. If the Fort is taken in time halfway, 'twould divide command. Half would wish to return, half would march north. Splintered, and easier to fight."

"Such precision cannot be achieved, without unrealistically high expectations of the attack," Zalbaag retorted. "If Cid holds command of the Fort a week may not yet be enough to take it."

"'Tis obvious should the man command whence we make our attack. If he does, we shall retreat, and consider other options. If he does not, we will take it." Dycedarg slipped a slight smirk onto his face. "To make the old man move, is but a simple task."

Hardly.

"What secret behooves this confidence?" Count Callen asked.

"The rather obvious fact that if Zalbaag and I were to marshal forces northwards, the idea of an attack would occur most naturally."

"Subterfuge, is it?" Duke Larg asked.

"Make no mistake, Old Cid has his ways of getting information across the border. Best we let him know what we want him to know."

This was becoming a larger and more delicate plan with every minute. "This grows too complicated," Zalbaag claimed. "Too many details oft leads to failure."

"It does," Dycedarg nodded. "We hold the advantage here, in numerous ways. A plan of this scope might not work against the Southern Sky united. But fractured, and broken as they are, the possibility of success rises."

There was no talking this conversation around. "Very well, Lord Strategist. I accept your reasoning. May I suggest precautions are taken in advance to protect the lives of His Holiness, Her Majesty and His Highness?"

"Of course, Dycedarg." Lord Brother's words were not quite warm…

"I will bring it up with Her Majesty at once," said Duke Larg.

'Twas unlikely for Her Majesty to consider the possibility of such an outcome. Certainly no one would point a blade at the High Confessor but at his age a siege might be too much to bear. The Prince, might yet be able to be safeguarded elsewhere by trustworthy Lionsguard.

Matters then came to minor details, along with division of tasks and commandership of the northern distraction. Dycedarg began to guide the situation as need be and the meeting led to its conclusion.

"Set your men at liberty for the day," Duke Larg commanded. "We leave on the 'morrow. For a united Ivalice."

"For a united Ivalice."

* * *

Talk did not flow free in the capital of Ivalice that night. Order Knights whose lips flapped too much or tongues sat loose had the sting of a whip on their backmind. But everyone in the city save those too young knew the signs of men going to war. The merriment, tears and reckless spending of coin for those who may yet be dead before their next year.

Talk of a different kind.

Talk that interested parties three.

Two welly intended to be hooked by the noise and fervor. The third player beneath consideration but all.

By subtleties, kindness and cruelties all three learned "talk".

All with the same conclusion: "move here; attack them."

Nobles though they may be, 'twas not their place to command. Anything more intricate was just not within their capabilities.

But the "move" of where was enough.

Where to move was two.

And the two conclusions were drawn.

All three parties sent their messages to their masters.

All three would prepare for wars.

And in the comforts of his quarters Dycedarg Beoulve smiled.

* * *

Count Cidolfus Orlandeau sat by the fire of the room that hosted him. Ramza Beoulve had finally woken. And Cid had finally made a decision of his own.

A knock came at the door. "Ser Aldebrand Rock, reporting."

"Enter."

The young knight did so. Face awash with anxiety. More than what was at play as he stared down three hundred knights.

"Take a seat, Rock," Cid offered before the boy could kneel.

A nod and a thank you proceeded the sit. "I would appreciate it, if you do not withhold the truth from me, Rock."

"Yes, ser."

"You knew Ramza Beoulve from your time in Gariland." More than a fair few within the Southern Sky crossed borders to train in the akademy's military halls. Most under false names with a mountain of gil. Even when the Orders not turned cross-purpose paranoia gripped itself in minds.

"Correct."

Good, no lies about the family name. "You know he is connected to the Knights Templar, in some fashion."

"We parted ways when he went to join their ranks."

Suspicions grew firmer. "Good man. I would ask you to be a bridge, between the young Beoulve and I. He does not put stock in me, as you do."

"I… yes, ser."

Cid flashed a frown. "Come, tell me what's on your mind."

"I do not think I am capable of being the man you need."

"You are precisely the man I need, Ser Rock. You are a man in trust of he and I. No other may claim that fact."

A small beam of pride illuminated the man's face more than the fire did. "I, will do my utmost, my lord."

"Good, good. I would also ask of you, to keep an ear clear for talk speaking cross with Her Highness or Beoulve. They would listen to you." Plenty spoke in public of their support. But in shade, resentment grew. No act ever had one group of reactions.

Rock repeated his above promise, with a bit more resolve.

"Keep your back steady. This is no more difficult than staring down three hundred knights for a friend."

* * *

Count Orlandeau stared down the three hundred knights to accompany him northwards. Written word, hearsay and rumors were too inaccurate. They needed a direct look at the state of Zeltennia. Over Messam's protests, and the worries of Her Highness and her Lionsguard.

If Zeltennia could not be stabilized any war would end before it started. They had time before the Queen's reply was due. This was their only chance.

Count Cidolfus Orlandeau and his three hundred rode north.


	70. Chapter 69: The Taking of Besselat

**Chapter 69: The Taking of Besselat**

The knights of the Order of the Northern Sky took their billets within the manses (for the commanders), wealthy homes (for the important nobility) and commons sorry excuses for abodes (for the rest). (Much of the last pushed free from homes in winter.)

The discontent present even when a friendly force sat in. And the merchants quickly kept any incidents from breaking due to the mounds of gil they were making from the Order. Men who may die on morrow's light were looser with coin than any other.

The leadership kept their wits about them. And beyond.

Their subterfuge would lead all concerned eyes that Dycedarg Beoulve and Zalbaag Beoulve were marching on Zeltennia's borders. (It was a crime to impersonate the highborn… but certain flexibilities could be arranged, when needed.)

The clear minds of the Beoulves were then dealt with ensuring no word of their presence slipped and all talk slipped was the march north the dangerous one.

Dycedarg Beoulve enjoyed the evening in solitary seclusion. A fine glass of wine—lacking in potency but with a rich taste his only companion in the luxurious bedroom. Every bit of finery he was due at his disposal and he only required a small book and full bottle.

This was all to prevent risk. The windows were closed and curtains shut tight. Some lesser commander might look upon the city view but Dycedarg Beoulve was to be marching north. Not even the smallest glimpse of his face should be round for spies to see.

The manse billet was to be infrequent. Only reports of direct urgency. Traffic must be controlled, redirected elsewhere as to maintain the facade.

When a knock came to the door, there was only one man it could be. "Enter," said Dycedarg.

Zalbaag quietly intruded, lightly shutting the entrance still behind him.

"Are we under attack?" Dycedarg poise the question. Even here, in this mansion their collusion should not be under any circumstance not severe.

"Not to my knowledge," Zalbaag answered. "But I've mind on other matters, tonight."

"Oh?" Dycedarg put down the book he so enjoyed reading. "Will these thoughts impede your march tomorrow?" He leaned forward to press the truth.

"Yes."

"I see." Dycedarg leaned back. Glass in hand, he looked into the red within. "'Tis not like you to be so reserved about a battle. Even when you were but Ramza's age—were he here, you'd"—a realization reached him. "Ahhh, Ramza, and Alma."

"There is nothing substantial," said Zalbaag. "'Tis my only thought is that, mayhap, Alma went to Orbonne Monastery and was victim of whatever destroyed the poor house."

Unfortunate timing, this was. "We've not the time to delay for you searching the old monastery brick by brick," Dycedarg told him.

"I am well aware, Lord Brother. But the Church officials handling the matter make talk within Dorter."

"So you wish to inquire in person?" Dycedarg shook his head. "I am against it."

"We can trust the Church."

No, they couldn't. "The clergy's loyalty is not in question," he lied. "But their discretion _is_. There is no confessional from them to you, Zalbaag." War preparations had delayed investigating the corrupt house for too long as was.

"I have grown tired of a splintered family, Lord Brother."

"Her—their absence," he corrected himself, "is a wound upon my heart as well, brother. Were it that the Church had a tangible lead on their whereabouts, I would make arrangements myself. But we are men of command, are we not?" Zalbaag's silence was agreement. "This campaign is bigger than even our family." Not himself, of course, but half-blood was still only half blood.

"It would seem a bit more manageable with another brother." Zalbaag whispered a "good night" and hastily left.

Ramza had potential, he was another son of their lord father, of course. But whatever fancy had seen him to flight was no matter. There was little he could accomplish. Even tarnishing the Beoulve name was beyond him. Father'd done that enough already by siring him.

Dycedarg turned back to his book. _Simple Tactics_ by one Cidolfus Orlandeau. To know victory one must know the enemy after all.

* * *

General Zell watched over the readiness of Fort Besselat. While Commander Orlandeau was away, he had command, and he would stand steadfast with the responsibility placed upon his shoulders. Drill was on schedule, weapons and armor maintained and bellies kept full. Winter gear was readied—thick fur cloaks and hearths burning hot with enough fuel to last three years in stock. Patrols regular and observant and scout reports taken with all due seriousness.

The Order of the Northern Sky were finally to make their move. The very moment his eyes laid on the word he'd sent it straight to the Count and Marquis in Limberry.

Two armies. One, to challenge Besselat, a distraction at best. With three sheer cliffs, as many thick walls, the castle keep besides and the option to loose the sluice and drown them; attacking the Fort from the west was a fool's errand. All this and with winter's bite on every man. No matter how readied the Northern Sky their heavy cloaks and thick gloves winter always took its price.

That was why the Beoulves were attacking the north. The weaker northern defenses would be easy prey for the famed House. Zell had authority. He could send reinforcements.

He did.

Enough to make a difference should an attack be made.

Few enough in number to elude pursuers should disaster strike.

The Fort sub-commanders were agape at the decision but attacking Besselat was the very height of foolish.

Yet the most dangerous weapon of war was still available:

Hubris.

No tool forged by man or spell cast could downfall a cause quite like arrogance. Claiming yourself beyond reproach was the surest path to meet someone who didn't. As the Holy Ydoran Empire found when they sent Saint Ajora to Paradise. One thousand years Ivalice had paid for pride.

It would not repeat here.

The patrols were doubled, scouts focused, and men prepared. If the Northern Sky marched on Fort Besselat they would be ready.

The men were ready.

They had made their peace, adjusted their schedules and cleared their minds and bodies.

The enemy was silenced. Their last reports were let free with words of inactivity.

The Order of the Northern Sky marched east.

It would take three days and Dycedarg meant to do it in two.

The recon teams were sent. Killers in the shade of friendliness. Scouts and patrols from the impregnable fort were removed on approach.

There were always eyes that could not be blinded.

An army arrived at Fort Besselat. Less than the garrison manning its walls.

But resolute and ready. Rested and armed.

The taking of Fort Besselat began.

General Zell could scarce believe his bleary eyes. Coming up the steep cliff paths towards the western wall of Fort Besselat was the vanguard of the Order of the Northern Sky and behind them a full and waiting army.

Even as he made sure the Fort's defenses were maintained in possibility for this he did not truly believe it would come to pass.

Dycedarg and Zalbaag (for whom else could it be?) had lost their senses to think they could still take this Fort.

"Knights of the Southern Sky!" he shouted into the cold morning air as dawn's first cracks of light rose east. "In all the history of Ivalice, one fact has rang true. Fort Besselat has never fallen. I do not mean to strike that fact from records this day! Shut the gates, rouse all men to alert and send word in every direction that the Northern Sky has taken leave of its senses!"

Cheers, shouts and jeers met him as messengers ran to rouse and retreat.

"Archers and black mages to first wall; summoners to second. White mages to every wall. I want a mixed platoon knight-monks interlaced between every other." There were no siege engines, no black chocobos. They were relying on dragoons to break the ranks and open the gates. "Fortify the gatehouse and ensure none enter its confines."

The orders spread like dirt throw in a river and soon settled as the positions he commanded came to defend. Some were groggy, even after a sharp slap of cold air hit them. Armor was not fully fitted and the occasional glove or helmet was missing. Best to be expected, in the circumstances. No army could maintain full readiness at all times. Hungry bellies cried out. Once the first wave had blunted they could be silenced.

The Northern Order's vanguard advanced below. A mixed force. Knights led foremost, and as they closed could the General see they carried themselves two shields. To deflect arrows aplenty. Behind them, difficult from distance and number of bodies, followed the hems of black mages. Behind even them were the familiar crests of dragoons.

The knights would protect the black mages, who would clear a gap in the walls for the dragoons to scale.

"Spread the lines!" Zell ordered. "Archers, loose your volleys on those dragoons. Ignore the knights and mages. White mage units begin with shell on heavy clumps! Black mage units wait 'til the enemy's within range and cast your spells!"

"Ser!" one of the black mage unit commander's called his attention. "Those knights wield elemental shields: fire and ice spells will simply be absorbed."

Ice spells would be all the stronger in this weather and now nigh useless. "Lightning will strike all the stronger then, relay the news down the lines." Some mystics would be aidful, but so few trained themselves in those arts.

"First rank at the ready!" the archer captains rallied as the rest of the orders were carried out. "Nock!" Units were separated. "Mark!" The glowing green bubbles enveloped the men. "Draw!" The Northern knights brought their shields of many colors up. "Loose!"

The black sheet fell in tandem with the rising sun towards the marching Sky. Some fell too early, plinking off knight shields. Others slipped past into the lightly armored black mages and stuck. If any fell behind the dragoons Zell did not see as the rain of missiles found their targets.

"Second rank at the ready!"

The wave of arrows crashed into the dragoons like the tide against the shore. They did what any man would do when nature turns its wrath upon them: They buckled; they soldiered on. "Nock!" Arrows pierced heavy armor, landed in gaps between shields. Lucky shots pierced helmets and slits and men went down never to stand again.

"Mark!"

Most accomplished little. Strength of arm and earth's pull could not let all rent through magick's wards and thick armor protecting them. "Draw!" Shields raised high to ward and protect the most vital areas. Too few fell and those who marched pulled arrows free of body and quaffed potion as regeneration of magick sustained them.

"Loose!"

The second volley accomplished more.

No matter how well one prepared their defenses and recovered wounds they still lingered. More dragoons took their final fall and those who remained lost a step as they marched.

Halfway now to the wall, but only a third of the dragoons marched. Even could their numbers sustain they'd not enough to take the walls. Too few. Too few by half. He'd missed something.

He surveyed the battlefield as the third volley of arrows was readied. Had he misread this? Were their no Beoulves here and some inept fop sent these men to their ends?

No, they were too resolved. Not a one of those dragoons spared glance backwards. Not even as the third volley cut into them.

Slow.

It was too slow.

Dragoons could have made two leaps and be on the walls before the archers could have loosed the second volley.

Below, the advancing knights reached the walls. Their secondary shields thrown aside and blades drawn!

Misdirection! All of it!

"Prepare to receive infantry!" General Zell barked out a breath before the Northern Order knights leapt atop the walls. His own blade was out in a flash to engage a foewomen. His mythril sword met her dark blue shield and he pushed hard against her.

He was the only one.

The ranks had spread and thinned on his command to avoid any spells. But it'd only served to separate the archers without support. Three might fend off a knight or cover their fellows, but now, each archer near the front was matched exactly in duel. A few had monk training—they survived. Most didn't. The lucky ones only lost their bows or limbs.

The first ranks were slaughtered before Souther Sky knights mustered to press back.

The dame dropped her guard—let him strike her and draw blood to make a stab at him. It grazed his side as he pulled back.

Reckless and stupid. She pressed him back despite bleeding deeper than he. She was not the only one. Northern Sky fought rapid, unconcerned for wounds they received. Wild swings and traded blows. Each exchange purchased in the favor of the Southern Sky.

The dame cut his upper thigh but he near shattered her arm on his swing back.

She fell back now, to wall's edge.

They all did.

Southern Sky pressed in to shove them off. Not even dragoons could survive a fall on their heads from this height.

The Northern knights raised their shields.

Dark blue shields.

"No!"

A cold deeper than any winter's ice grasped his body and pained everything. It gripped him like a vice and crushed every gasp of heat from him. A thousand cuts from splintered skin that froze all blood freed from body.

He fell into a huddle to regain whatever warmth he could.

He shivered and hacked between his sore throat. He couldn't feel his hands and feet. Couldn't feel anything.

Through eyes glazed and bleary he saw the dame. Sharp—uninjured. Dark blue shield almost glowing.

Ice shield.

Her sword pierced his throat.

* * *

The many spells of icaga sieging Besselat's walls were the signal. All the tools, both man and man-made, were in place and ready. Fort Besselat would fall this day.

Zalbaag looked back at his troop. Head of a thousand chocobo knights. "Chocobos at the walk!" Zalbaag shouted to the dozen bannermen under his direct command. The chocobo knights undertook their command and walked steadily closer.

Cid was not in command. This tactic would not have pushed back the Thunder God and the infiltrators sent ahead would have been rooted out. Taking these walls was within doing.

"To the trot!" They steadily advanced. A dozen men and women ready to teleport into the gatehouse and force open Besselat's outer defenses. Each of them had reviewed the Fort's plans. Half-remembered references of men who once watched them. Stock copies of others. Assumptions.

"Canter!" The chocobos clawed through the dead dragoons and rest. Teleportation was a risky method of travel even when you were precisely aware of the terrain you were teleporting towards. Slight differences could spell the difference between solid footing, a fall, or crashing into another person or floor. Even worse was solid matter—as Ser Galvenston's missing hand would attest. Teleporting a limb into rock left but one recourse. The "how's" and "why's" had baffled every time mage since the spell's creation, but the ever-present danger of having to cut a limb lose, or find your head melded with a wall, had curbed enthusiasm for one of the most effective spells ever devised.

Now they were using it in the most dangerous way possible to take a Fort that would be tenfold more dangerous to siege conventionally. Dycedarg's tactic to take the outer wall couldn't be repeated. They'd not enough dragoons.

"Gallop!" Full speed to reach the gates. The van parted to let them forward. Every moment gave the Southern Sky time to regroup.

"Now!"

There was no general consensus on just what teleportation felt like. The non-feeling of not being. Some spoke of it like an eternity. Others thought it faster than a blink. Still more claimed to glimpse Paradise within its confines.

Zalbaag had enough time to contemplate other viewpoints between the wink of riding Choco and being on his feet in front of a dozen knights who'd not even the time to fathom his sudden appearance before his sword cut through the air and slew one of them.

"Attack!" an enemy screamed the obvious as Zalbaag was already stepping forward. The knight's guard was too slow raised and Zalbaag pierced straight through the throat.

He pulled back as the knights closed ranks.

The din of battle surrounded him and he was fortunate indeed not to have foemen at his back. He swept the area with watch. Galvenston moved to cover Bodhi who'd trapped his foot in the brickwork of the sizable room. Southern Sky outnumbered Northern by double and already after a hand's worth were on the ground bleeding. More than expected, much more.

Knight engaged knight as Zalbaag's troop took defensive stance. They needed buy time for the inner squad chant their magicks. Southern Sky rushed to exploit their advantage of numbers.

Galvenston and Bodhi outside the circle were swarmed and cut down. Protect and platinum armor had its limits and a half-dozen swords were that. Zalbaag had to fight off five enemies at once. Striking and retreating in coordination. Sneaking cuts to his lower body when they could. His attempts to stab back were battered back and he narrowly avoided having his runeblade shattered.

Zalbaag carefully measured his steps backwards to maintain a strong perimeter for the inner group. He was the only one. To his left Amalia deflected one stab only to fall victim to another. Her body pinned in place as two more Southern Sky stepped in and cut through her. Corvic to his right had lost his shield and flashed his sword wildly to prevent any aggressive attacks, but careful precision rent the blade from his hand. He took the stance of a monk and counter-charged. Zalbaag couldn't spare a glance towards Brendha at the rear, but her shouts were the loudest.

"Queen of the frozen wastes, regal us your power! Shiva!"

A blizzard erupted indoors as the esper Shiva's illusionary form glimpsed six times between the countless shards of razor sharp ice. Zalbaag pushed forward through the snowstorm and struck in concert with the peerless control of magick. An esper's mastery over their powers far surpassed any man's and the hailstorm moved in reaction to let him, and his blade, through without trouble.

Strike and stab followed on the paralyzed enemy knights and before the storm even dissipated they'd managed to put an end to the Southern Sky.

Storm and sight cleared and white-gray snow was replaced with dark gray stone. Zalbaag had lost half his knights for sixfold more of the enemy. He looked for the gate controls—there! And rushed for them.

The survivors rushed forward to aid him and the device moved. The outer gates of Fort Besselat were opened.

* * *

Commander Rina of the second wall watched as first wall fell to the enemy. General Zell had fallen in battle and the Southern Sky who'd swarmed the invaders had met a frozen grave as multiple casts of ice spells formed a frozen wall with overwhelming number.

Too few survived, and those that did were hunted down as they retreated. Black mages made desperate chant but were silenced with steel.

A simple jump and she and her dragoons could reinforce and retake the first wall. But too few to make a difference now.

"Summoners!" she roared to those under her command. "Call forth Ramuh and clear first wall! All advancing knights secure the gatehouse!" The Northern Order lacked men enough to hold their bloody purchase and the lightning lord's bolts would shred through their ice shields.

The first wall archers were already pulling back. Too few left. "Archers volley at discretion!" They needed to scatter the enemy's advance any way they could. Without formation the archers shot to her command and the random storms found the marks they could.

Southern knights were still marching from under the second wall gate. More than enough to retake the outer walls and rebuke any further attacks. Once they had control of first wall she could make her way over.

First wall's gate opened.

"No," she whispered. It did not change the fact it _was_. They'd not broken through the gatehouses, not yet! _How!?_

Traitors.

No surprise the Northern Sky marched so confident!

"Close the second gate!" Her order was met with blank stares. It'd abandon every man sent to reclaim first wall.

She didn't have time to debate this point! She hefted her spear and leapt over to the gatehouse. She pounded on the door and the watch slit opened. "Commander?" an interior guard spouted in surprise.

"Close second gate!"

"But—!"

"We can't risk second wall; close it or I'll take the lot of you as traitors!"

"Y-yes ma'am!"

The knight hobbled back inside and through the slit she saw the lever flipped. Shouts of confusion and anger as the second wall was secured.

She rounded the turret's edge just in time to see the enemy chocobo knights breakthrough.

If she'd been even a second later…

Riding under the gate limited the enemies rows but the columns were too deep to see the end of. Southern Sky beat on the second gate to be let in. Those who accepted their fates prepared to receive cavalry.

In proper conditions, a well-trained formation of knights could inflict enough casualties on an enemy charge to break their momentum and bog the enemy troops in a melee they did not want. A wall of shields, long spears braced against the earth

Every requirement necessary to stop the enemy's chocobo knights was absent. Raw desperation did little to stave off a lance to the chest and a bird tearing out eyes.

She'd doomed nearly half of the garrison's forces to death but better that than all of them.

"Saint Ajora take you brave men." She leapt back up the battlements. "All forces focus on the chocobo knights below!" They didn't have any sort of speciality equipment. The spells still at their disposal would inflict far greater carnage below than on those at the other wall.

First wall's assailants had been beaten back by arrow and esper. Ramuh called forth when her attention drawn inwards. Mayhap half, at best, of the enemy's number remained on first wall. Those who could continue clashed with Southern Sky charging up the steps.

Commander's clause demanded she look at the knights below being slaughtered. Desperate prayer they'd found matchless courage, rallied and thrown out the invaders.

Steady mind knew few enemies would be bested by desperation.

When she finally glimpsed below the latter won to grimm acceptance.

The fallen forms of a few chocobos peeked out from the bloodied bodies of Southern Sky knights. Mayhap one for every twenty. Those too few enemy fallen patchworked by arrows from gatehouse arrow slits and rocks dropped above.

The initial charge had lost its momentum but had pierced straight to second gate. They angled their facing and spread amongst the bailey, piercing through the hastily assembled lines of Southern Sky. Arrow and spell rained down to blunt the impacts but man and beast and mythril lance stabbed through any resistance.

One knight made desperate lucky leap and pulled an enemy knight out of the saddle.

Both were crushed under talon of the stampeding birds.

The chocobo knight vanguard was quickly worn down sheer numbers of Southern Sky they ran down, but even quicker did Southern Sky fell. A disjointed melee broke out as the chocobo knights ended their charge and took to stabbing through the openings they could manage. This slowed the Southern Sky's retreat but they were still outmatched. Two chocobo knights fell for every five Southern Sky now.

Archer, summoner and black magick continued to bombard the chocobo knights and even out the battle as much as possible.

Up on first wall the Northern Sky's forces were swiftly losing ground to the advancing Southern Sky. Only for the chocobo knights to pierce through and harass the rearguard ascending the stairs. Try as they might 'twas a fight on two fronts—one that could not be fought.

This was the moment.

"Barricade second gate and set the chocobo traps we have! Break second gate's chains I don't want that gate raising 'til Count Orlandeau's return!" The troops moved to relay the orders over the rising tide of battle. Instruments rang out and messengers ran.

"Dragoons, with me! We're retaking first wall's gatehouse!" It was a bit of a desperate gambit, but if they resecured it, the Northern Sky within would be trapped and naught but targets in an archery range. They wouldn't be able to maintain the siege after that!

Her thirty-strong platoon rallied around her. Each and every one of them had tested these jumps a hundred times. They could well accomplish this in their sleep!

"Archers: Keep target; Volley in formation!" she barked out. The rapid stream of arrows stopped so they would not stop her.

"First rank at the ready!"

Dragoon's bent their knees.

"Nock!"

Deep breaths taken.

"Mark!"

Their formation would maintain through the air and landing.

"Draw!"

Men died.

"Loose!"

Vision disturbed as arrows became curtain between walls. Cleared—like gap in waterfall and Dragoons leapt through!

They soared through air like black chocobo and landed with grace and violence as spears dug into the skulls and shoulders of Northern Sky.

Rina took her kill and ran towards the gatehouse's doors. Her best men followed her. None stood in her way and her remaining men readied into a spearwall to prevent any strikes on her rear.

The first iron door came into sight as she dashed. Betrayal waited behind it but for now their focus on breaking through. Designed to withstand kicks, hand-rams, magicks, rendings and much more.

"In unison lads," she shot out as they closed the gap.

They couldn't break the door but precisely aimed hits might jostle the bolts and bars enough to push in.

The view slit popped open and she saw the eyes behind. "Commander Rina!" an ally shouted at her from within. "The Northern Sky teleported into the lever room!"

"Ludicrous!" she yelled back. "They'd not the sight!" They'd more like to move into the walls!

"'Tis true!" he replied. He shook behind and the door opened to the hall behind. Ten Knights of the Southern Sky greeted them. Just barely in sight was the door to the gate room proper. Now nearly rent inwards. "We've used the martial arts as best as able to break in."

She chided herself for leaping straight to traitors. None but the most valiant in Southern Sky! "We'll strike through!"

She and a pair set in front of the door. Kicks enhanced by magick that could throw woman to sky struck the already bent barrier and it shattered inwards.

Sword thrusted right at her and she narrowly edged 'round it! The blade followed her twist and still managed a cut—blade glowed and her arms faltered as assailant knight pulled back.

Five. Five Northern Sky stood atop a room full of Southern Sky corpses. Bodies torn by blade and magick. Not nearly enough Northern Sky dead or alive to account for the butchery.

Rina raised her shield (unsteady, damn whatever affliction he sent on her!) and sent a thrust right at her enemy's face (obscured by helmet). He took the attack to his shield and rebuked her, but did not pursue. He stood close to the entryway, daring without words anyone to break in.

"He covers for mages behind! Rush him!" Dragoons raised shields and charged in unison. Foeman's stab splintered Tem's shield on her left but their sheer weight pushed him back and opened the way.

Spear in hand she stabbed with all her might—at empty air.

Teleport. They'd all gone!

Scream of agony—behind!

"Tem, close the gate!" she shouted and pivoted to face their foes once more. "Sela with me."

"I cannot!" Tem shouted!

"What?" The gates could not be jammed open easily and any cutting of the chain would seal them shut. She looked… at the system frozen in place.

'Twas simply impossible! Magick could not maintain itself like so! Fire and lightning might cause spread of flame but the spells themselves were but bursts. Ice could not freeze the air into as solid a pillar before her. If magicks could endure like this than Leviathan would ward off any drought.

The absurdity demanding attention had dulled her concentration. Sent it away from Southern Sky allies.

Four fell back through the door. Four of _ten_. Within a few breathes the remaining Northern Sky had earned their number in kills plus one.

Clear these were the best troop in the Northern Sky. If she could stop them now they'd have no chance of taking any other gates. Even with second gate's chains cut better to garner every advantage she could.

"Hold fast, I'll break through," she hissed and rushed through retreating allies. The Northern Sky sentinel kept prepared with raised shield and readied sword. The other four were loosely grouped behind him (blood still wet on blades).

She could do this.

She approached the sentinel not quite standing in the doorframe.

Perfect.

She shifted her gait as she burst forward and put all pressure on her left.

A jump more akin to a dash, than dragoon's famed sky-leaps. She twisted her body midair and landed on the right side of the door frame. Angle was as good as could be and she bounced off towards the door exiting the gatehouse proper.

Northern Sky stabbed and slashed at her.

Angle and force ruined. Legs shredded. She slammed awkwardly into the ceiling before crashing into the floor and sliding headlong into the door.

She didn't have time for pain or shattered bones. The Northern Sky had replaced the door's bar but not locked it. As she stood, pressing her spear into the ground to force her one working leg up, she bumped the heavy bar aside.

Lucky.

The Northern Sky were too concerned with her men within and hadn't pursued her half-broken self. Their mistake.

She pulled open the door and met with dragoons.

Then met with their spears.

Enemy dragoons.

They finished off what was already started.

* * *

Zalbaag had twisted his head to follow the Southern Sky dragoon's desperate attempt to escape. Had the Northern Sky dragoons not been sent forward, she may well have succeeded. She was quick of mind and unafraid to act, removing her was fortunate. The attempt to retake the gatehouse could have impacted the flow of battle severely had precautions not been taken. Detonating several ninja snowmelt bombs and freezing the residue with Shiva completely stymied her efforts to close the gates.

But her presence here posed other problems...

For later. Now Zalbaag needed to return to the fray and that meant finishing off the counterattack. He advanced back into the guarded room. His blade shown with magick glow and drained might from nearest foe. With flagging arm a shield was raised but Zalbaag struck it away with his own and stabbed the knight dead.

He slung his shield at the face of nearest foe—surprised! it staggered him and Zalbaag followed with another strike to the helmet knocking him aside.

The other foemen recovered and pressed back. Zalbaag gave ground at an angle inside the room. The four enemies advanced ferociously and even defending fully his retreat was too hasty.

One of the dragoons stepped back and faced the door. Faced it as Northern Sky dragoons penetrated within. More spears than faced Zalbaag punctured the Southern dragoon. But the man was resilient enough to stab back at his killers, no matter how futile it was bouncing off a shield.

The final three resolved to die and pressed him with all their might.

Their futile might, as Zalbaag teleported to the opposing corner of the room. He scarcely paid attention as the three were skewered by spears.

"M'lord!" one of the dragoons called to him. "The enemy closed the second gate before our chocobo knights could break through. We'll need your help to take the second gatehouse!"

Too quick, as he feared. Whoever was in command of the second gate (dame dragoon or other) must have cut the forward reinforcements off immediately. Even if Cid were not in command the enemy's resistance was too tenacious.

"Assume the western gate to be rendered inoperable," said Zalbaag. "The commander will have cut the chains that moved the gate." The initial plan had hinged on taking second gate and assuming they'd cut chains at third. They'd have to adapt.

"What now, ser?"

"First we rest," he ordered. "Distribute the elixirs as need be."

"Ser."

The dragoons distributed the ultimate restorative to the battered unit. Needy hands took and quaffed the miracle cure.

Zalbaag held off to give orders. "We must adjust." Zalbaag stepped passed and into the outer hall. "We'll reorient our attack to the south-facing gates. They'll have smaller garrisons to contend with and, with some luck, still-working gatehouses."

He pushed up his visor and drank the reinvigorating waters. No finer ambrosia save that of Paradise could match the taste. And no spell or medicine either could compare. Wounds, fatigue and stamina were restored like a good night's rest and even the pressures of magick eased aside. A welcome warmth, rather than heat of combat.

"'Tis quite the assumption the western gate cannot be opened, ser. To make no light of how deviating even into a lighter area of resistance still leaves us even more open to arrow fire."

Zalbaag pushed aside the euphoria of elixir to reply. "Better than ramming futilely against a gate that cannot be opened." Alacrity was their ally here not brute force.

"And if they cut chains on all the gates?"

"We are true and well in need of retreat then," Zalbaag admitted. "Get word to reorganize the black and red knights with our new doctrine going forward. The vanish unit should adjust when they catch sight of us and make sure the black mages know to hold off on their magicks for a time longer." Having black mages target friendly units immune to spell effects was a risky gambit should equipment shatter. It'd proven its worth in extending effective cast ranges, but the timing was tight even within one wall's distance. "And get me a flame shield as well."

"Ser."

Dragoons rushed off to act under their new orders (and one gave his shield before doing so). "We're heading out the south exit of the gatehouse," said Zalbaag. "Close enough for a teleport over to the second wall and continue until we claim that gatehouse."

He'd four left in his teleport troop and ten dragoons here with a few hundred to follow up behind. "Two dragoons secure this door after we leave. Keep my unit alive at all costs. Advance."

Dragoons to the front—door flung open. Arrows arrived to carpet the path forward. Misses all but warning clear.

Dragoons advanced anyway.

Through the gaps of dragoons guards, Zalbaag saw into the carnage below. Northern engaged Southern in desperate melee gambit and dead piled high on both sides. Spell, arrow and stone wrecked greater havoc in ally's number than blade and spear. This attrition in stark contrast to their initial planning.

Before him Dragoons, both those escorting his unit and those clearing the wall, did their work. Southern resistance on this wall section had waned considerably in face of this attack.

Arrow flew from the east and pinned itself into ally's head. No, not arrow, quarrel. Bows had the better arching shot so were the more used in tiered sieges like this. Desperate luck or skill?

A few more arrows felled allies before the Southern Sky atop the walls were finished. With no more foemen to vanquish, knight and dragoon put their shields to wall against arrows from beyond.

More dragoons in Northern color—and fire shields strapped to arm—leapt into view from the direction of the army core. Messenger made direct line for him with news:

"Black mages and chocobo knights are informed and changing accordingly. We're ready on your order ser!"

The dragoon handed over a flame shield as ordered and strapped it to Zalbaag's arm. "Dragoons, spread out and cover all space between the western and southern gatehouses of the second wall. I don't want any overlapping coverage in spells like first wall. Just burn as many as possible and let them retreat back to ground level." Tax the white mages and support units overmuch and disrupt supply lines.

He stepped out into view—a quarrel narrowly missed striking him.

Skill indeed.

"Attack!" he shouted and burst into a run.

Dragoons jumped at command—flying through arrow-filled sky to land on enemy's territory. Battle went as Zalbaag's troop advanced under threat. Durian took an arrow to the knee and shorty after the throat.

Three left, whether Durian lived or not.

Brief glimpse below saw overwhelming victory for Northern Sky. From Southern: Swords thrown down and hands raised. Surrender in droves, even as chocobo knights continued to suffer from missile and magick.

Explosions overtook the second wall and their brilliance took half the enemies in sight. "Now!" he shouted.

His order, his magick just a hair faster than the quarrel that struck where he was. With strained muscles and drained magicks they split across space to top the second wall of Fort Besselat. Disgusting familiar smell greeted them alongside battle that still raged.

Spreading flames had not cleaved ranks as well as first wall. The enemy stood resolute and fought back using their greater numbers.

Numbers that, nevertheless, still begat scorch marks. Even outnumbered as they were, surrounded and struck, the dragoons of the Northern Order took at least three down for each brave man slain.

Their duty was upheld!

Zalbaag and his remaining troop rushed towards the gatehouse with its closed door. An enemy knight with plumage on his helmet raced them to it. Clear his order: "cut the chains!" Not even stopping to reorient himself, Zalbaag enacted a risky teleport.

He skidded into a similar room and collided with an enemy monk.

Tangled in limbs, they fell to the ground. Zalbaag landed on top his foemen just barely fortunate in angle. Enough so to thrust into the exposed side of surprised man.

Zalbaag let his sword lie in the dying man and rolled himself to face upwards.

Three enemies. Only three!

But no allies his own.

A geomancer and her ax already aimed at the chains upholding the gate.

Zalbaag was faster. He whipped a shuriken into her arm and her grip on the unwieldy weapon faltered.

Two enemies advanced on him as the third retreated into pain. Another monk, eager to avenge fallen brother, and solemn-faced dame—her sword already raised.

And he without his sword.

Zalbaag took cautious steps back. He'd not the time to retrieve his blade but he had other trades to ply. Left arm and shield in front to protect and a hidden right ready to whip out ninja tools when needed. The dame stepped forward—Zalbaag's right leg was struck and he buckled backwards in face of enemy's assault.

Aurablast.

A distraction, but a valuable one, as foewoman swung. He took the blow poorly on his shield and it deflected into his upper arm. The monk circled to Zalbaag's right as the knight reared back for a second swing.

Too presumptuous. Zalbaag hurled a shuriken into the monk's direction. The spinning blade pierced into his arms and stunt any attempt at follow-up aurablasts. He turned focus back to the knight. He pressed in, blocking her sword-arm mid-swing and turning a deep cut into a shallow gash.

He swiftly pulled a flameburst bomb loose and tossed it at her leading leg. The explosion disrupted her stance and Zalbaag further pushed her off-guard with his shield. Without proper footing she fell on her back.

He'd not the time to finish her as the monk rammed into Zalbaag's back and sent both men crashing to stone.

The two exchanged blows furiously. Gauntlet versus fist as harden as mythril.

Zalbaag won on simple fact of armor.

A dirty win but one he was content in living with. He shoved the bloodied and beaten-to-death monk aside. He stood in unison with enemy dame but he had he better sustain. He pulled another flameburst bomb out, but instead of throwing it at the cautious knight, he slammed it into his own shield.

The flames erupted to life… for a brief second as they were consumed by the shield. Whatever magicks inscribed in the gemstones of the shield absorbed the fire and turned it into healing magick for the wounds Zalbaag had sustained. Far from perfect, but these circumstances demanded any edge he could muster.

Carved stone flung itself free and struck at him. Plates dented and his knee was blown out. Unto it he fell as gaze settled on geomancer. One arm limp and useless, colored by its own blood, but her free limb was enough to enact geomancy.

It had not petrified him, some small fortune. If he'd not healed his knee might have been blown out.

The geomancer kept her distance and the knight remained as guard. They'd the advantage and mind enough not to waste it further.

A dangerous risk he'd need to win.

Against all sense Zalbaag turned his back to his enemies. The chanted spell for next geomancer's art came to ear and halfway through Zalbaag teleported.

As geomancer's back came into view—knight charged—Zalbaag threw another shuriken. Precise and deadly it slammed into her skull on the very last word of her spell and she died.

Last desperate rage-filled knight charged forth. Fury brought its strength to bare and his shield was sundered. Blade bit deep through gauntlet into flesh. Blood flowed. Bone may be broken under it. Concern for later.

Knight's shield clung close to body. Defensive and ready to lash out should his free arm attempt anything. Sword pressed ever the deeper and he gave ground to avoid his hand being sawn off. He shifted his right as he fell back. Out of reach of shield bash.

She realized it as well and desperately moved shield.

His hand darted back.

Her shield came slamming down.

Flameburst bomb hastily thrown.

Explosion at her fingers. Sword crushed deeper into arm—gasp of pain. From both.

Her sword slipped and, without intent, she pushed it out of the hideous wound she'd inflicted in her bid to enhance it.

Their stances were gone and all order had broke. Gods above watching him for more enemies had not broken in yet. Pray to them before he focused on his prey.

Her right-hand fingers were mangled—in no shape to hold a sword. Left might, had the shield not made it difficult. She did not take flight, understanding she'd get a flying sword in her back if she tried. Simply standing ground worked to her benefit

"Bolker, now!" Zalbaag shouted.

She _had_ to shift. To call it bluff was forfeiting her life already. Eye on him, whom may be behind and sword at her feet. The last kicked aside.

There was no other man of the Northern Order but her shift, just a footstep further gave Zalbaag the space he needed.

"Johns now!" she replied his bluff with her own.

There was no door kicked open. Chance remained, ever slight, they had a teleporter of their own. Unlikely. Zalbaag continued his motion. Flameburst bomb flew at her face and she reacted in every way… while Zalbaag dove away, towards the closest weapon left.

He grasped the handle of the geomancer's ax and hurled it at the dame. It's spin circled it around her shield and into forearm. She gasped in pain as Zalbaag scrambled forward to pry his own sword free from the corpse he'd left it in.

She saw her end in the blade and rushed for the door. But her two hands could barely function and the many locks on the door were too much to handle.

She did not even face him as Zalbaag fatally stabbed her.

Messy, sloppy. No great tale yet nearly his end. That was war in all its fickle flames and fluid morality.

He let himself a small breath of relief despite it. The only relief he could feel. He'd no chemist reserves or white magicks to mend his knee and only two flamebursts left even had his shield not splintered to scrap. Without his team he couldn't hold this gatehouse on his lonesome.

Zalbaag flexed the fingers on his left hand. The cut hadn't been deep enough to sever movement. Good. He clasped his free hand over to staunch the bleeding and headed to the gate controls.

* * *

Quella winced in barely-concealed horror when she received news she was now the ranking officer for Fort Besselat. Her helmet's enclosure being the only ward from unsettling the men.

Everyone more experienced sat in defense of the outer walls and died doing it. She'd wet her blade on fewer bandit scum than her compatriots but had the more prestigious lineage behind her to push her rank higher.

Yet now everyone was shouting at her for orders and commands.

The hell was she supposed to do that General Zell or Commander Rina couldn't!? She wanted to be an arithmetician and was stuck in plate!

She took a deep breath. She cleared her head. Took stock of the situation. Focused on what she did know: numbers.

The keep had enough food to sustain the garrison for a year. Longer now, with most of the garrison dead or so to be. In addition, they had fishing from the loch. They couldn't retake the Fort, but simply had to hold out for Count Orlandeau or Marquis Elmdore to bring reinforcements. That wouldn't take long. They could hold out for that.

She sent out her orders: Call back everyone from second wall and hold out the third wall gatehouses at all costs. Staff them to their limit and let no Northern Sky come close. Irvine's teams in the castle towers could rain fire on any Northern Sky attempting to scale the walls and they'd run out of men before the Southern Sky ran out of arrows.

Her knights (and all the horror that brought) stepped to carry out her orders. Even as second wall was besieged by Northern Sky dragoons. They lacked the numbers to emerge victorious… but the situation at first wall already showed they didn't need too. Explosions followed in enemy's wake. Even in loose formations, more Southern Sky were afflicted than not.

Arrows and bolts rained into the Northern Sky ranks and swords followed, pushing the scattered dragoons back. Defenders won, through numbers and attrition, with caution brought by first wall's lesson, through this they won.

That simply could not be.

They clearly had to be planning more than some attack like this… They'd proven too intelligent so far.

Oh, of course! She cursed herself the fool. Just because they took the first wall without siege weaponry did not mean they possessed none. The first wall was best armed to withstand such attempts. With the depleted stations, second and third walls would be vulnerable to such an offensive.

There was no word of any siege weapons… but there was no word of this attack 'til Northern Sky could be seen with the bare eye. Rams could be hidden, or even brought from Dorter before reinforcements could come!

And yet she had no choice but to let it happen. They now lacked the ability to deal with such threats.

No… no, that wasn't quite true either. Most of their black mages and summoners had taken up forward posts, but geomancers were almost exclusively set on third wall. They could disrupt the stones and make it too difficult to push a battering ram to the gates…

"Milady!"

Her attention was pointed to the south gate of second wall. Which now rose!

They'd slipped by somewhere in the confusion. Going south would slow the Northern Sky's progress, but it was still progress.

"Our gate's opening too!"

With horror taking her she watched third gate rise.

And she'd just reinforced it! "T-take it back!" she ordered and followed in the charge with twenty other knights. "And get more men to the gate! Everyone!" Damn near every man on the walls took to charging the gatehouse.

How? How had this happened!?

N-no, this was exactly the response they'd want! Overreact and overcommit, just like the prior walls. Right. Whoever raised the gates could be no great host. Traitors, spies or teleportation. Few, too few too require so many men to rush and end. There were no chocobos under gate just yet but surely they would come. A cavalry and infantry push was the pressing danger; the dragoons at second wall were on the defensive and faltering and should they press to third Irvine would swiftly decimate their ranks.

"New orders!" she stopped herself and those nearby with a shout. "Fifty men of third company to retake the gatehouse; the rest of you prepare to receive cavalry! Every last black mage we have! I want all available time mages ready to Stop spell whatever front line of knights comes forward and crush their momentum!"

Hesitation for a step before the ranks split to their new assignments. She followed the throng down towards the gate. Already thick in column and row and spears ready. Orders relayed the star-printed triangle caps of time mages made their way into the crowd with readied spell.

"They're coming!"

Quella was half a head shorter than most of her contemporaries and even she could see the Northern Sky approaching on their red chocobos. Magicks of white surrounded and protected the defensive Southern Sky as the enemy closed in.

"Prepare to receive cavalry!"

The Northern Sky kept to their charge.

Why? No matter how enshrouded in magicks they were there were still too many Southern Sky to break through. She'd misread the situation again!

The enemy's charge slammed into the foremost wall and any thoughts were blown aside by combat.

The red chocobos and their mounted may well have been bolder or ballista for how they struck the lines.

Through shouts, chaos and screams as momentum shifted words pierced through clear. "Spirits of time: Hide us from the judging hands of God. Stop!"

The time mage two men to her left loosed her spell. The distortion of time and so many similar rent sight as they landed on the oncoming hordes...

...tears that seemed to strike against a circle of green and pink…

...and bounced back into the numbers of Southern Sky!

"Reflect…?" she gasped. Spell so rarely used in battle despite its power. Shield that sent spell careening aside and often back at caster. White, black or time so few magicks could pierce its splendor and none she could call upon at this time.

Might of arm had to drag these knights low now but in face of such opposition it could not be. Spear and arrow and even monk's strikes glanced off the thick armors of the Northern Sky. They put stop to their charge and simply went about stabbing and killing with lances.

They were sitting targets…

Perfect for Irvine and the keep archers to dispose of. They had simple need to hold ground against this onslaught!

"Stand fast and defend yourselves!" she shouted—and was engulfed in fatal fire as she did.

* * *

The siege was going well.

Zalbaag's concerns were founded but surprise and Beoulve resilience had proven superior over whatever poor excuse for leadership Orlandeau had left in keeping of the Fort.

Despite this, Dycedarg did not allow himself a hint of a smile. Let such a luxury be saved for victory and a drink. His attention must be focused.

And focus he did. As the last of their dragoons (plain and not) scaled the walls and continued. Injured were brought to designated areas for chemists and white mages to handle. A steady march of infantry now pierced the outer walls of the impenetrable fort and the lane for cavalry and messengers was kept clear.

Among the last of that, was a dragoon rushing back. Code-words and passwords were exchanged to guards as he passed. One could not be too careful of assassins in such a battle.

A critical message was in the man's lung as he came to Dycedarg's command unit to deliver it. "My lord!" he knelt before the hundred-strong. "Lord Commander Zalbaag Beoulve has given word he can no longer continue his attack."

Dire tidings. "Where is he to not hand me such news himself?"

"Stricken within the gatehouse of the middle set of walls on the southern facing. The gate to the inner walls, south side, opens as well."

Plan was for Zalbaag to take all walls first before Dycedarg led the reinforcements and taking of the keep. "Understood, dismissed." Plans always needed adjustment.

"My lord."

The messenger ran off as Dycedarg turned to address the troops. White mages and time mages layered their spells upon his chosen bodyguards with one rare addition of a reflect spell stop it all. Often too dangerous and unwieldy in large-scale battles, it was perfect counter under certain circumstances.

A hundred knights. Each of them a skilled and dangerous fighter pulled from every corner of Duke Larg's lands. Each one a match for a Lionsguard. Every protective spell know and layered over the finest armor made. Each knight an army.

And he to lead.

This would put to silence those murmurs and rumors. Behind closed doors and hushed whispers did his spies hear the talk. Disparaging House Beoulve and he. That desperate gamble when the Corpse Brigade raided the manse and wounded him to bedrest. Even crushing the lackwit commons had not put to rest the rumor mongering. A cornered animal had bit the hunter and slaying the hunt was not the bandage needed to stem the blood loss.

Taking the one Fort in all of Ivalice's history that had never faltered would. Let the cubs of black and Church's deceptive eyes see and behold the true might of Ivalice. Beoulve might.

"Trot."

He worked the mounts to their gaits through the avenues cleared. A blur brought about by spell of haste and red's speed. Childish babble it was that a red chocobo could run thrice the distance of yellow in same time (maybe but half-field more). Under time magicks it may well be a near thing. Arrow and spell impeded their progress none as they circled south, then, back north under gates.

Order given: Ride atop second and retrieve Zalbaag. Ten broken off to aid Beoulve.

Whisper his own as they charged through Southern Sky fools. Spell incantation: slow, precise.

"Smoldering…"

But one arrow ever wounded one of a hundred. Nothing would stop them.

"...flames…"

Throng of Southern Sky awaited them beneath the third set of gates. Thick in ranks, near to keep's closed entry. Readied well with spears and mages and archers above.

"...from…"

It would avail them nothing.

"...far…"

The Northern Sky's charge demolished the vanguard of the Southern Sky without effort. The man spears could not penetrate so thick the armors of North.

"...below."

The fury of the charge spread itself and engaged the surrounding formation. The high-quality of the cavalry broke apart the quantity of infantry.

"Incinerate…"

Holding ground.

The enemy's spells loosed.

Useless against Northern, not so against Southern.

Swathes of the Southern Order were stricken by their own spells bounced back by reflect. Stop, and slow and the myriad of black's fire, ice and lightning.

"...these…"

Havoc broke their ranks better than any charge.

And Dycedarg would add to that.

"...fools. Firaja."

The massive conflagration of fire magick carved a crater into the enemy's numbers. At command the forward cavalry reoriented their efforts and attacked towards the weakness created.

Carnaged erupted as the Southern Order moved across the melted and still burning bodies of compatriots to close the gap.

Hardly could they match the speed of the chocobos.

The forward knights broke through to the burning pit, and pushed beyond to the closing foemen. And beyond even that as they charged with all their fury. Quickly they advanced, slowly they were beaten, broken and killed.

The effort requiring to pierce the lines levied their numbers to a third. Ten knights rode bloody and victorious through to the flank. Stricken by arrow and bolt. Twenty bodies of men and bird lay behind. Dragged and piled and slain. Tenfold their number in Southern claimed back.

As those ten rode hard to flank Dycedarg's accompaniment went to war. Half of the cavalry accomedent had now fallen in battle even as half the enemy's had not. He would have to alter the balance more himself.

Melee had broken spear and lance into sword and ax. A vicious crude chopping that Dycedarg took glum part in. The perfectly balanced heft of his defender knight sword earned its keep in blood and death.

He'd been too reserved in maintaining fitness during the troubles with the Corpse Brigade. Not so here, with worthy opponents. Cleanse his earlier arrogance in this show of force.

He shattered an enemy's shield, helm and head on his right whilst two more on his left struck at his shield and thigh. To the front his mount tore into a man's face.

Dycedarg did not relish this grisly scene the way Zalbaag did. Better men did not and should not be dragged down into such baseborn violence. Leave that domain to those who were expendable.

Ally to his left cut apart slowly and life ended with bolt imprinted through helmet.

Ally to his right cut free from saddle and dragged to ground. She struggled and fought herself to her feet. WIth chocobo at her back she cut a bloody swatch 'til spear pierced bird and woman together.

"Cycle." Dycedarg order and the beleaguered front lines shifted for reserved seconds. He now but one of three remaining.

Sergeants within the enemy formation shouted to do that same now. Signalling themselves the easy target.

Easy target indeed.

"Firaga."

His short charged spell erupted at one of the dozen sergeants. Not enough to kill, just barely, but useful as a distraction and danger.

Dycedarg raised his shield just in time to block the bolt of the archer.

Easy targets were perfect targets on both sides. He spared glance up at the man. A short distance for the profession but his shots were fast and accurate. The most keen-eyed archers manned the final defense. Dycedarg would have to break it.

"Send word to bring up the blacks—and get me a hi-ether." He'd drained himself much with just two spells. The price of power.

The message passed and was sent on red wings. The sour-tasting restorative was handed to him and he quaffed it with mindful eye to the above.

Enough for him to spend two more firagas. Finishing off his first target and luckily finished a second.

The archer had not opened fire once more. Patient. He'd resolved away from mindless volleys for this. It would cost him dear.

"Milord, retreat signal from the infiltration team!"

Ill tide. "Pull back." The advance stalled and retreated under order. Narrowly avoiding the gate come crashing down. Still, eight riders did not make it through.

The remainder set nearby the walls to ward off any arrow. "Clear that middle wall and get Zalbaag and his team over here," he ordered and half of his remaining forces charged off. What little it may matter, as his original riders had already united with the dragoons and brushed aside the enemy's defenses. "And every dragoon with a fire shield as well." Doubtless every man beyond the inner gate lost already, but the defense was concentrated on the low. Take the high then and clear it for the black chocobos.

As patience frayed in tense boredom Dycedarg replenished himself with more hi-ethers. When this was over he'd a splendid bottle of Chateau Meyney.

The rest of the company took to mending the few wounds they'd received. Regeneration had made light those already received so the fifty men still riding were as capable as when they'd first rode.

Zalbaag arrived before the blacks. He alone, riding a gifted red that matched the man himself and all the blood—enemy and self. "Brother," he exclaimed. "The rest of my team fell in taking the second gatehouse's hall."

"A pity." Losing quality assets would make retaking the inner gate much more difficult. "I've called the black chocobos up, we'll ride them above and take this."

"They've like cut the chains already."

"I would not be so certain," Dycedarg replied. "And the doors would be broken to retake so quickly." If it had, they'd need to start scaling with the equipment being brought with the blacks.

The brief period between Zalbaag's arrival and the flying chocobos was spent on taking care of the younger Beoulve's numerous injuries. Nothing to be done at the moment about the deep gash, however.

The aggressive eternity that was waiting finally ended with the black-feathered birds arriving. Zalbaag and the bulk of the red-riders and their heavier protection transferred over. Dragoons and their fire shields readied and lept.

The first man up was first down—quarrel in his eye.

Troublesome archer had to be dealt with.

Dycedarg loosed the flames of firaga above. Shouting and death rang from above.

And Zalbaag followed in.

* * *

Irvine brushed a stray red hair aside. Even thin as it was he could not afford the slightest damper in concentration. His heart pounded to escape and his fingers were near to raw and bloody from pulling his crossbow's string back but he pushed aside all pain and fatigue alongside his hair.

They had to hold here. They'd forced the Northern Sky's red chocobos back and retaken third wall's gate. The enemy dragoons on second wall had been recalled, they'd be scaling third wall soon. Not for long. He had enough bolts to shoot out the eye of every White Lion-aligned scum who dared set foot inside.

Every woman and man beside him on the castle turret thought the same. Each one of them was picked by the Thunder God to hold the keep at all cost. There was no safe place on the fort walls from their missile fire and the numerous bodies of Northern Sky proved it.

His compatriots satisfied their aims picking off the red riders in the courtyard. Two left. But Irvine's attention was drawn fully to the next attack. That was the killing blow. If they could shield it the Northern Sky's momentum would shatter and the could regain control of the battle.

His shot fired the very moment the dragoon's helmet traced the wall.

Dead on target. Dead target.

But a half-dozen had made it atop. Well enough for him to handle alone, even with their fire-on-fire-shield tactic again.

He braced his gastrophetes crossbow against the stone and put in the behemoth of effort to put its string back in position. Enough force to break a man's hand if he got caught in it. He checked his fingers when done—red and pained but not bleeding just yet. All his gloves and spares had already been shredded. This had to end soon.

He rested the blue stock back against his shoulder and took aim. He wouldn't waste his bolt on the dragoons, the garrison was cleaning them up already. No, whatever key assets was next to be put forth would earn his ire.

It came as no surprise when the dark hues of black chocobos flew over the wall. His bow fired directly into the large wing of the creature and forced its landing early. "Everyone, on those black chocobos!"

His command switched targets and readied with him.

A hail of bolts and arrows lashed out at the oncoming birds. Few were felled, most were injured, and they pressed on regardless. Straight into the gatehouse.

That would be a deathkneel. Even with reinforcements pouring in from the other directions a concentrated attack above and below would overwhelm the defenders. They couldn't even pull back to the keep now.

This was beyond salvaging; they had to bleed every man they could for Count Orlandeau's return.

Desperate times.

Irvine fired off another killer bolt and faced the nearest free hand man. "Jacobs," he called him to attention.

"Ser!"

"Get inside and relay my orders: burn the keep grainery and every foodstuff we have."

The command subsumed all din of battle. A small hitch before his subordinates went back to fighting, save the one given dire order.

"Things are not so dire ser!"

The southern gate opened as if to prove the point. The swarm of red chocobos returned to pressing the lines.

"The Northern Sky cannot have more than half-week's provisions to march as they did. We deny them whatever we can and force their supply lines run heavy and dangerous."

"They'll starve us first ser!"

"I know." He'd not ordered the keep gate raised for a reason. "Go, do it, or I'll find someone who will."

"Damn you for making me do this ser!"

"Damn the Beoulves and damn whatever assassin took Duke Goltanna's life first, Jacobs."

Any further argument died in the other man's throat. A look of resigned disgust took his face as he hurried inwards.

"I much agree with him, ser," added Nadine. Approval echoed amongst the rest of the archers.

"Any man or woman who wishes to swim the loch north has my permission. I intend to stay."

Two rushed off on offer's notice. The rest stayed and girded themselves for their end.

They would not make it easy. Irvine and his archers fired tirelessly into the oncoming hordes. Fingers slicked with blood, bones broke, strings frayed and curses came more often than breath.

It was not enough.

The unrelenting tide of black and red then yellow overwhelmed all who stood against it. Cries to surrender were ignored and death began its uneven embrace.

Those with broken bows and useless limb took flight. 'Til Irvine alone fired into the crowds. The string had lost tautness with a crimson shade but he still struggled with every vein to keep pulling.

The mix of chocobos below finally caught their notice and settled on him as prey. The blacks congregated at tower's base and ascended.

He'd not die like some hapless dog. He tossed aside his crossbow, gripped two bolts in his hands and leapt at the closest rider!

He'd have loved to see the look of surprise as he plunged death into the man's neck but the helmet forbade that.

The angle and weight pulled the bird down and Irvine slammed into the ground alive.

Unfortunate, as it let the Northern Sky take their time executing him.

* * *

The black chocobo deposited Zalbaag on top of one of the keep turrets to little effort. Save the suicidal fool who'd leapt to his death, the archers had pulled back rather than face mythril in their face.

A squad of five knights accompanied Zalbaag's descent. A few Southern Sky stranglers sought tos tand in his way but the spiral of the tower worked against them. They did not impede progress long.

His squad linked with another in a two-man-wide hallway below. The deeper into the keep was pulled and barred shut but was broken apart with little effort. A volley of arrows answered their breach, but a wall of shields blocked those. The archers turned back and fled, down a much larger hall and through a door.

Resistance had given way to desperate panic and the ending trance of a battle overtook action as pursuit was enacted. Route pacification became common. Rooms were searched, cleared and enemies hiding killed. An armory ran rife with southern sky and soon with their bodies. A barracks and its many doors consumed much in time and supply as each room needed a thorough investigation as the craven did love to cower under sheets.

A communal room saw joining more squads of Northern but brought another issue. In the large square room flanked by bunks was the first sign of actual difficulty:

Smoke.

Leaking from a doorframe leading towards keep's bowels and wisping towards nearby open window.

Zalbaag rushed to the door and bashed it open. A waft of stinging blackness greated him and a rise in heat beyond.

Damned fools and set the building aflame.

"Send word the Southern Sky has set the keep on fire," he ordered and a man peeled off to follow through.

Zalbaag had not the snowmelt bombs left to combat any blaze left untended for so long. "We regroup and open the gate." Securing vital documents and supplies would be too dangerous in unfamiliar halls consumed in unknown fires.

As best as he could he led the men back towards the keep's sole gate would be. The halls had undergone change since last mapped and recalled. Changes that brought near fatalities from holdouts.

Progress continued as the fort grew hotter. When they reached the gate controls they'd been impaired, unguarded and usable after some work. The design would simply be too complex to destroy like the walls, it seemed.

With a mighty push they circled the lever around and the mighty gate of Fort Besselat's keep opened. Northern Sky fell in like food into hungry mouth and Dycedarg rode up aside.

"Good work, brother."

"Not well enough, I'm afraid," Zalbaag replied. "They've like burned whatever food and documents they could."

"Fools." Dycedarg shook his head. "We'll take the sluice to combat this disaster."

"Aye, gather me a squad of black chocobos we're going up and over!"

"Nay, brother," Dycedarg stopped them. "We've done enough for this battle. 'Tis won already, best rest yourself for battles ahead and leave the men to get some glory for themselves."

His presence could save a few more lives… but safe experience was a rare thing to occur even in veterans. "Very well then." Zalbaag stood down.

* * *

The battle for Fort Besselat ended at midday's sun. But the fighting continued well past sun's departure. Diehards and holdouts held to their positions even as hunger took their bellies and thirst parched their throats. Northern Sky extermination teams were run ragged taking the inner parts of the walls. More died in cleanup than actual combat. But staunch resistance slackened, and hands and flags of white were raised in sense… and senseless violence awaited those who didn't.

The keep itself was overtaken by fire that could not be bested. Food burned, flames spread alongside wooden beams and reinforcements scorching the stone black. Tapestries burned and documents became ash. Whole sections of the mighty bastion were rendered unstable and like to collapse before the Northern Sky mustered enough of a response and contained it.

The pillage of the winners bought only a week's meals. Most of the grain was stored in keep proper, only secondary depots were contained in the outlying walls. To feed more men than ever garrisoned within those walls.

The Order of the Southern Sky had lost half its forces through a combination of death, injuries and fleeing. A number rather over eight thousand. The half wise enough to surrender were given all the privileges of their stations. They would be a pretty ransom indeed, and bankrupt any resistance before it could muster.

The Order of the Northern Sky lost a third of its strength, some six thousand. A remarkable achievement for directing occupying the strongest fortification in Ivalice. The name Beoulve was hot on everyone's lips. Curse and praise traded in equal measure.

The War of the Lions may well be over before it'd truly begun. One lion laid declawed and headless before the vigorous strike of the other.

Fort Besselat had fallen.

* * *

 **AN: Yeesh, this took forever to get out. Hopefully it was worth it.**

 **Super thanks to all the Favorites and Followers that showed up in this months-long absence. Hopefully the next one is far more expedient... since it's about half done as is hahaha... Well, here's an explanation if you care to read.**

 **So, months ago, I was working on Chapter 69.. A Chapter 69 that wasn't this Chapter, and has since become Chapter 70. Halfway through that chapter, henceforth called EST, I got burned out. I'd been planing Taking of Fort Besselat for so long I switched to writing that. Halfway through writing this Chapter, I decided it was a better fit for 69 since I'd otherwise teased it so long. I transplanted that first scene above from EST. Except by this time I'm so far without updates my momentum died. I slowly crawled forth maybe a hundred words in February and March. Come April, I just decide to do some heavy editting of what I did have to reinvigorate myself.**

 **That didn't work.**

 **Eventually, enough factors combined together with a helpful PM prod to get me writing again and voila!**

 **70 shouldn't be so absurdly long, but I have other things to catch up with first.**

 **Thank you for reading and have a fresh day.**


	71. Chapter 70: Unwanted Confession

**Chapter 70: Unwanted Confession**

Following Count Orlandeau's departure, a curiosity welled inside Princess Ovelia. She stifled it, but a visit to Ramza — now recovered enough to sit up — had rekindled and fueled it.

She approached Marquis Elmdore later that night and asked, "Are there any books on the Fifty Years' War available?"

Her question caught him well off guard. His reply, unsatisfactory, "Unfortunately no. The conflict is too recent for a complete masterwork of the campaign to have been penned. I've records aplenty, and a few scribes have attempted to consolidate information, but Limberry's participation is a limited view of the overarching picture of the war."

"Are any of those compiled works available?"

"In a state far from completion, Your Highness. The rigors of war often demanded haste and code, so transcribing them into a standard quality is a complex and time-consuming task. Save for inventory reports, which are dreadfully dull. And I'd be remiss to mention that reports are often contradictory, as no commander beheld the full picture of the war and all its fronts."

Her lingering curiosity dampered by plain facts. "Very well, then. Thank you for seeing me, Marquis."

"If I may," he said. "I am able to ensure that your history teachers begin to cover that era. I am well aware the undertakings of economy and food production can grow _too_ familiar."

It was something she was intrigued by of her own volition. "If you would."

She, Agrias, and Lavian, departed.

"Your Highness," Agrias stopped her once only a handful of hall guards were within sight. "If I may ask, for what reason did you speak of such a thing?"

Ovelia faced her Lionsguard. "Count Orlandeau's leave reminded me that he knew my Lord Father." _If he was._ "I know so painfully little of him, and the war claimed his life, so…"

"Ah…" Agrias almost seemed relieved at the answer. "If you'd like, Your Highness, we could inform you to the best of our knowledge."

"Very much so," she replied.

Ovelia took a brisk pace to her room, not even waiting for the door to close fully before insisting on the details.

Agrias went into the broad matters of the war first (as Lavian closed the door). King Denamda II, her father's father, had a claim on the crown of the neighboring eastern country of Ordallia. When the King of Ordallia passed, King Denamda II pressed his claim and invaded.

Ivalice was at its heyday. The height of its power. Knights, more combined than every Order left in current Ivalice, marched with the full support and well wishes of the populace. And more, as where Ivalice first marched was the old lands of Zelmonia, a country that had long been under the oppressive yoke of Ordallia. Assisted by Zelmonia rebels, Ivalice looked ready to take Ordallia's capital and liberate Zelmonia within a few years.

Only for tragedy to strike as King Denamda II passed.

His firm leadership lost, the armies of Ivalice stalemated with Ordallia for many years.

That was when Romanda to the northwest invaded.

The island nation launched its mighty fleets at Ordallia's behest and Ivalice's heart was stabbed. Ivalice's Orders, pulled east by the war, were under strength at home and could not ward off the invaders.

This is where her father first made his name known in history.

Following in his own father's footsteps, Denamda IV was a fearless leader of men that drove out every attack Romanda could throw at them. In three years, all the ground Ivalice had lost was reclaimed and Romanda fled. An outbreak of the Black Death had crippled Romanda's industry and agriculture, preventing them from pursuing the war any further.

Under King's leadership once more did Ivalice look ready to end the war.

When trouble roused once more.

Peasants, drained gilless in taxes and food collection, took their farming implements and cried "no more!". Uprisings and banditry became commonplace, and the latter made the former occur more often.

A fate shared with Ordallia, so once more was the war postponed as the countries handled their own people.

(As Ovelia had overheard, a fair number of the commons who rose up were conscripted and sent east.)

Ivalice managed its affairs better and for a third time began its advance…

...for tragedy to strike. King Denamda passed. Some would say murdered — poisoned.

The Ivalician leadership was paralyzed and the talented Prince of Ordallia pushed back. Back beyond Ordallia's occupied borders. Back across allied Zelmonnia. And into Ivalice proper.

King Ondoria III was not the warrior-king of his father, and his father's father. There was no hope but to sue for peace. A peace Ordallia did not accept.

Only a long, drawn-out campaign brought the eastern nation to treaty. Ivalice had lost and reclaimed much of the provinces in the war and Ordallia's supply lines had grown long and ran through dangerous Zelmonnia territory.

Under the careful negotiations of Barbaneth Beoulve, peace was finally achieved. Even if the knight gallant himself did not live to see it.

The war left Ivalice wrought with insurrections, bandits and debt. Weak leadership from King Ondoria and infighting between noble houses only escalated the damages.

Now, now they were here.

Ready to start another war.

Hearing the story told her one thing: Ivalice could not survive another war.

She may not have had the heart to take a stand such as this if Agrias, Ramza and the others had not pledged themselves as they had.

Even now, she felt like letting go.

"That story tells its tale clear. The wrongness of war, and the suffering all who endure it bear. Especially the commons." Including—perhaps—even her.

"The unfortunate truth we have come to bear witness to, Your Highness," Agrias answered.

So many twists history could have taken to not force war where Ivalice fought itself. Thoughts surely shared by every person in Ivalice.

Yet... would any of those turns led to meeting Ramza?

No, she did not want to be glad for so much suffering.

It was one little ray of hope in her life she had, so to banish it was not something she could do.

So, perhaps now she finally realized what the Lionsguard and he felt, when they chose her and war over otherwise.

Mayhap she deserved this fate.

Wallowing in self-pity and half-concerns as everyone indulged her and the title.

Like her half-brother.

She gave commands, always at others' suggestions. They planned. Would not listen even if she said no.

Had her father and his been so meek? No. They'd been men of passion and strength.

Like Ramza.

Ramza.

If he were king.

If they were together.

The thought of it once more clutched her chest in pain. She felt flush in the face.

"Are you alright, Your Highness?" said Agrias, taking a step further from concern.

"Ah, yes, Agrias, I am." She'd let it show too easily.

"Mayhap you caught a fever from Ramza," she suggested. "Illness begets illness, I'm afraid."

Ovelia couldn't help a shudder at the thought. "I think mayhap it just a passing murmur." Oh what little words to describe it. "Our conditions traveling were far from ideal, yet none of us were beset by fever. To suffer one now just seems… odd." She frowned at the thought.

"Still, your health is a paramount concern, Your Highness. Even such a momentary lapse must be given full consideration."

The concern was touching, even if overbearing. "I do not think the blood of Atkascha should shudder in fear of the smallest malady."

"Illness plagues your family, milady. It is only proper to be wholly concerned with it."

Even should she not be Atkascha? "Your point is made, Agrias," Ovelia said, more harshly than she intended. "If I am taken by sickness I will offer you my deepest apology, but I think it not so grave to warrant putting aside a visit to Ramza."

"As you command, Your Highness." Agrias bowed aside.

"Rather, I think I shall spend a time by his side," she declared. "With full privacy, if you may manage it."

The question rather took her Lionsguard aback. "For what reason, Your Highness?" Lavian asked. "The doctors and we do not intrude overly much, do we?"

"It is… tiring, having those doctors in the room with each conversation. They're too insistent." It would be rather spoiled to declare they didn't respect her title after all she griped with it. "Nor am I ungrateful for your concern, but… it is a weight on his shoulders to always mind his manners in your presence. And he would be well off with as little stress as possible."

"That is… true…" Lavian frowned. "We may… waylay, two of them aside, and have the third, and any other staff, brought outside for other talk." Lavian's eyes flashed. "Yes, mayhap use this talk of fever, as well-founded concern? Outside of your earshot, to not worry you unduely."

A funny little coincidence. "Then let us do so."

"Patience, Your Highness," said Agrias. "This will require the cooperation of Alicia and Annabelle as well. We shall need to dissuade Lettie and Celia from intruding as well."

They shadowed her movements as well as the Lionsguard. "Yes, thank you, Agrias, I had not put consideration to that."

She smiled. It'd taken near a month but she could finally have a moment alone with Ramza again.

* * *

It was a melancholic thrill that sitting up under his own power was an accomplishment for Ramza these days. He'd still not taken a step from bed since his wits returned. Memories of Delita's difficulties weighed on his mind every time. The longer he laid useless the harder 'twould be to even begin.

And all thoughts of settling back into a familiar physical exertion were banned by the three. Once he could actually begin a regimen again it had to be a magickal curriculum. His mana veins were still delicate. If they were not properly tempered now he might never cast again.

It struck him as peculiar, sore muscles needed rest, but he was the one in bed for improper use of magick. Little to reinforce his perceptions on the matter. Though, it did somewhat seem like an equivalent of his body weakening by languishing in bed.

He kept his mine as sharp as able. But one could only count the stones that made the ceiling, walls and floor (within vision) so many times before it became tiresome. Attempts to assume how many he weren't seeing led to counting beds, tables, chairs, curtains and windows.

He'd earned a healthy new respect for aspiring arithmeticians.

In came Ovelia and Lavian. Not quite either of their routine times, but a welcome relief from monotony and boredom.

Only the white mage (Derwin) was in room at the moment. And he was led outside by Lavian shortly after. The first time all three had vacated since he'd been aware.

And with Lionsguard absent, the first time he'd been alone with Ovelia in far too long. A blue cloak draped her shoulders and covered her beneath it.

The little smile that slipped unto her lips made clear as day she planned this.

"That was clever," he complimented her. "How have you been?"

She giggled lightly at his question. "Better, now that we've time like this." She took her familiar seat beside him. She pushed free her hands (a white dress underneath the cloak) and leaned forward.

Their hands met.

Even still sore as his was, he wasn't letting go.

With time again they talked. What they couldn't say to each other—really, her, as his side of their exchanges had already been spoken and were not of interest.

It was much of little things, more expressed opinions on books and her constant distaste of the conditions. The constant kneeling and lack of freedom.

Not much as it was; still a good thing to be open like this.

"Ramza," her face hardened, "I want to announce, about us."

A strange mixture of anticipation and dread welled inside. "What brought this on?"

"I am tired of being pressured into marriage," she sourly said. "Even after my direct refusal the marquis still floats the idea."

Forced into one marriage to be rid of another? Hardly proper first steps for a proper union. "I… would rather we delay—let-me-finish-please," he hastily tacked on before he hurt her. "I'd rather like to be able to kneel before I propose." Nothing about their time had been common or right or proper. He could scarce provide for her the duty and station she deserved, but every detail he could get right he would.

The breath Ovelia held as her mind went dark was loosed and replaced with relief. Much preferable. (He did as well not that he was aware he had held.) The heartbeat pounding so loudly in his chest could not be well for his health but he'd have it no other way.

"For true?" Both her hands took his on in between them. "It will be difficult, I'm aware, but we can make the marquis listen."

"Perhaps peruse any books on Orators." He'd dabbled back at Mullonde. Not as much as he should, honestly. Certainly the journey here could have been aided by being more erudite. "We'll need every manner of persuasion we can."

Lionsguard (Annabelle would be furious, and right after they'd become less hostile); Stone? Mayhap not… If he spoke the truth to Count Orlandeau?

They were too out of sorts. He'd not even the funds to purchase rings or host a wedding. They'd imposed enough on their hosts—as if they would even let it progress so far.

This is what she wanted and he'd support her. They were in love.

What else could it be?

Every word to describe haste applied and he did not care.

"We should not tarry, any longer," said Ovelia, and broke their grasp. "We are lucky to earn even this little time."

"I can think of something rather quick to best end this on."

It had been so sudden but so… _nice_. But also awkward and they'd never talked about it. Was it good? Bad? He leaned to the former but she never repeated and he didn't want to impose and—he just went for it and kissed her once again.

She didn't pull back, she didn't relent. She pushed forward in their embrace and he embraced this as everything he ever wanted.

But breaths needed to be taken and they pulled back.

Cheeks of both aflame—alive.

She smiled and he leaned forward—the door splintered inwards and Marquis Elmdore stomped into the room.

"Not only your father's face but his ardor as well. Release Her Highness before your head is released _boy_." His hand quivered on the handle of his still-sheathed katana. One misstep and the blade would be loose. He meant every word of it.

Ovelia leapt from her seat hands moving to accuse. "Marquis Elmdore what is the meaning of this!?"

The Lionsguard and three doctors followed in after her words.

"I'd thought to have more time than this but you've forced my hand," he replied with a cooling fury. "Your Highness, step away. You've played the part written for you in a script penned by Dycedarg Beoulve wonderfully. Any affection you've garnered for him has been planned by his elder brother."

"Ridiculous!" she retorted.

"Absurd," Ramza added on. "I've turned my back on my lord brother's ways!"

"So makes a fantastic tale," Elmdore replied, his eyes darting between the two of them. "The noble knight turning his back on a family for the sake of a princess? Risking life and limb a dozen times for her sake? 'Twould come as no surprise to blossom into more. Quite the simple plot to hoe."

"He lies in bed from defending me and has thrice-more approached the gates of Paradise repeating that act."

"All such wounds inflicted by blades of the Northern Sky," Elmdore responded. "Constrained and blunted to not be fatal." Elmdore shot him a narrow stare. "As well as any self-inflicted magicks."

Ramza scoffed. "I'm hostage to this bed; your men all claim I'm near-invalid, yet you accuse these wounds intentionally taken?"

"Such carefully measured farce at play at Limberry's gates. How convenient they did not swarm your self the moment your taunts went high. Blood shed is more convincing than victory claimed flawlessly."

Ovelia threw her arm in front of Ramza protectively. "He has confided in me and protected me near-equal to a Lionsguard and I'll not hear such slander from you any longer Marquis."

"You are too taken in by his story, Highness," Elmdore hissed. "The moment his troop brought me to Eagrose I was met with demands and concessions as price for my rescue. Altruism died with their lord father."

He turned even that to his advantage? Ramza could only gape at the audacity. To hold no concern for commons was a vile standard of the nobility but not even other highborn? What, then, did Ramza expect? Dycedarg's assassins were after Ovelia's life. He should have realized this sooner, if anything.

"I am aware his intent was not so selfless because he told me," she steadfastly declared. "He declared this was for his own benefit as well."

"Yet still you defend him and his brother's tainted hands."

"Do not think yourself absent any intent to use me for your own ends either, Marquis," she shot at him. "He gave me more chance to decide my future than you did when he faced those 300."

"And had Cid and I not saw fit to intervene your only choice of future was death."

"Did you just not say blood shed is more convincing than none?" she retorted expertly.

"Twisting my words does not give credibility to him."

"How then, does twisting the truth lend credence to _your_ claims?"

Her words paused any reply from the Marquis for a moment. She hadn't won, but she was putting up more resistance than Elmdore expected. It was a welcome sight to see her radiance again.

The Lionsguard, though more accustomed to their lady's triades, clearly hadn't expected this course of events. They restrained themselves. Their lady could match equal here.

The wroth which the Marquis had entered with had finally found temper. He steeled his face with a deep breath. "Then let us hear his story in full," he declared.

Were he in better condition Ramza might not have flinched at the levy.

When he did a smile crept unto the Marquis's lips. "He already springs back, because he knows his story lies. You're not as practiced in deceit as your brother is."

"Aye," he agreed, "I patron myself to the truth more often."

"Then the truth is?"

Impossible to tell. Not even Zalbaag would take the truth as given. What chance did the marquis have to listen?

"Not for you to know, Marquis," Ovelia interjected. "I have experience the veracity of Ramza's words first-hand."

"Did Dycedarg spit in your face he was responsible then?" She could not respond to that. "No, I did not think so. It is concealed because brought to fore 'twould be simple to disprove."

"What reason is there even for your accusation?" she switched discussion. "For what dastardly purpose would they want my life taken yet still allow me into your hands?"

"'Tis not scenario ideal; a secondary plot or tertiary perhaps. Contingencies are a basis of warfare and he excels in that craft."

That rankled at Ramza's mind for a reason he knew not.

"That is… that is simply absurd!"

"Your temper betrays your doubts."

"I have none regarding him," she declared.

Elmdore gave an explosive sigh. "You've let honeyed words and a daring crusade blind you, Highness. How clear do you know him beyond his name and face? What more to he, than swinging sword or casted spell?"

"And what do you know of him beyond his half-blood brother?" she remarked back. "I have seen his flaws—our first troubles of combat he saw fit to announce he'd abandon me."

"...I… what?" The question mayhap caught him more off-guard than anything save Saint Ajora returning to Ivalice. Even the Lionsguard shot him disgusted looks. "And you defend him?" his tone tinged mystified.

It sounded wrong hearing about it, yet at the time, for the reasons he had...

"How absurd it sounds, I know. Then and now. He would have left me to locate a friend washed down the river. Who here would have made such a choice?"

"Never, Your Highness," Agrias spoke for the Lionsguard.

But Marquis Elmdore had told her flee so that he might preserve his lands. He could not answer.

"I'd little choice but to follow him. Never once had I been taught how to live on my own." She looked at him, face soft in spite of harsh words. "He fought again. To protect me. He called lightning upon himself to vanquish our pursuers."

"He has played that act again and again, just because he struck himself with thunder—"

"Thundaja," Ramza corrected.

"You cannot strike yourself with Thundaja," Elmdore pointed out.

"You can when you've enemies' metal within your gut."

"Then you should have died."

He'd lost track of how many times death should have applied for him by now.

"You did not listen," she rebuked him. "He was willing to abandon me. If this was all for a plan to remove me, why not let me reach to Eagrose? Why not take it when we were alone? Why would he search for a friend rather than see his duty to the end?"

Elmdore had no swift reply to that. A look of deeper consideration betrayed him. "I am not the full examiner of Dycedarg's means," he said. "But it reeks of too coincidental that he happens to overhear plans against you, Highness. That is not the level of carelessness to expect from him."

Ramza said, "He is not without flaws his own. The Corpse Brigade attack on our manse left him bedridden. Even he can be careless. As he was again. You scarce believe I would betray blood so neither would he."

Suspicion remained deeply etched on Elmdore's face as he scrutinized the pair. "You turned your back on your House… for what?"

"'Tis it so difficult to believe 'for righteous cause?'"

"The luxury of youth," he remarked. "Yes—I do not believe. To throw aside and take stand against family on but hushed words? I overlooked this story for the benefits it brought but now you stand at trial. You reveal no confrontation with him. No talk with Zalbaag. Only an act of spying which you claim no mastery of. Either as a man of forthright boldness or shadowed intent, you had every avenue a better approach than absconding here as your first."

Dammit. There was no answer to give. Even if he revealed his reasons for turning against brother that would make Elmdore's accusations more entrenched.

"Alma told him."

Ovelia drew all attention back to herself.

"Who?"

"His trueborn sister and last of the Beoulves. She overheard Dycedarg's plot and told Ramza, and I. He did not wish to bring his sister to your attention in any way but I'll not stay silent."

If Alma knew that certainly would be a truth.

"Why does Beoulve daughter concern herself with your well-being, then?"

"We studied together, for a time, at Orbonne Monastery. We were friends." Ovelia stopped but Ramza knew, in any other circumstance, she would have ended with: _Perhaps my only friend._

All of Elmdore's pointed intent about blood first had been turned against him. "She believed her own kin so capable of such, so easily?"

"Ziekden Fortress proved our brother capable of such," said Ramza. "He had Delita's sister killed rather than capitulate to the Corpse Brigade in any fashion."

"Delita?—Herial's sister? Your denouncement of your brother is because he had a commons girl killed?" Elmdore could not help but gaze in... wonderment? "By the Gods that must be the truth."

'Twas Ramza's turn for surprise. "How...?"

"'Tis too absurd to be a lie. It's difficult even to articulate a proper response to this." The Marquis shook his head. "One girl," he repeated. "I've seen noble men more chuffed by the ash on their clothes than all the lives lost in villages they just burned. Slavers left to profit on broken commons 'til they take nobleborn as product. Landed nobles who hire bandits to steal more gil from those to be under their protection."

"I believe, Ramza Beoulve, because no one would otherwise be so daft as to make a claim that the life of one commons girl was justification enough to abandon family ties. And certainly is such a thing inconsiderable by Dycedarg."

Even the famed friend of commons Marquis found him fool for this? Tietra's life was not so worthless.

"Do not insult the honor that led him to protect me," Ovelia demanded.

"Honor must be matched with sense, Highness," Elmdore replied. "Which has its leave of both of you. Whatever illicit affair between you stops this instant."

"Govern your tongue, Marquis," Agrias interjected. "One more careless remark about our lady and any oaths of hospitality no longer apply."

"'Tis not for you to decide whom I give favor to," Ovelia steadfastly declared.

Marquis Elmdore split his attention from the two ladies demanding it. His rebuttal addressed both, "Ill-manners on my part, I agree. But these matters are of such grave import, that they spark passion aplenty. Too much so. With cooler heads, then, let me say thus: Your Highness you must not be taken in by him, regardless of where his loyalties lie. You need allies and political advantage and he offers none."

"He does."

Elmdore shook his head. "Mayhap, in a future flung far, where this war is done and you are queen. A Beoulve would work wonders for trust among White Lion lands. But what is before you, remains the important part. There may be no future if there is no present."

"Then why have you not made any offers of betrothal between yourself and I?"

He shifted uncomfortably at the accusation. "I am your ally already."

"But it fulfills your goal, both future and present, does it not?"

"It does—but others will gain you more."

" I…" she struggled.

If only he could stand to comfort her.

"I do not want more—I want him."

Ramza pushed his legs over the edge. He braced his arms to force himself up. His legs were… like they weren't there. Like they were empty of everything that let him stand. If he'd tried to put weight on them, he'd have just awkwardly collapsed.

Elmdore took a deep, deep breath. "Your Highness, it is only natural, after being in the company of him after so long sequestered that certain biases would form. You are of that age—we've all held such passions. He has, acknowledged by all, risked his life a great deal many times for your sake. Noble, and valiant, for sure. Your judgement is sound, but it is not wise."

"Huh?" Ramza confusion slipped his grip and he tumbled down.

Ovelia knelt to his side. "You're hurt," she noticed, without regard for the Marquis's accusations.

He was always hurt. "Yeah…" One of his scars was cut on falling. Stupid. Even if it was minor.

Ovelia grabbed a nearby swatch of cloth and covered it for him. (Over the doctor's objections.)

"Thank you."

"It is but a small thing, compared to all you have done."

"Enough," Elmdore declared.

"Enough, indeed," Ovelia said right back. "You have overstepped your bounds, Marquis. You—none of you, have say in this matter."

Already bitter Lionsguard hardened further.

Instead his gaze shifted to Ramza. "The matter clears. Will you not be the one to speak the truth you so claim to champion or will that duty fall unto me?."

"I am befuddled entirely to what you mean," he answered… truthfully.

His answer only seemed to narrow the marquis's eyes. He placed hand to chin in some thought his own. "So, that is how it is, then." He turned his back to them. "So be it. Come to terms with on your own pace but do not twaddle for long, we've not the time to indulge flights of fancy." With condescending and mysterious words the marquis left them.

His departure now changed attention and Ovelia was quick to answer. She looked at the Lionsguard. "Agrias, Annabelle, Lavian, Alicia… each of you deserves to know." She met eyes with each as she said their names. "At my nadir he saw fit to care. Care about _me_ , not the title I hold. He offered to flee, run from Ivalice and its attempts to end my life. Throw aside all he had to not just save my life but pursue any happiness. Always has it been 'duty', 'honor', 'station'. Even when you tried, Agrias… everyone, there was always the wall of 'Princess' between us."

Agrias stepped forward. "Because we respect you, Your Highness."

"I know!" Ovelia shouted. "You respect me. You have fought for my sake. But each was always for Princess Ovelia. But he… he fought for Ovelia. He fought for her _and_ the princess. I honor your loyalty—I do, but ever is there that gulf between us. Only Ramza… and Alma dared cross that."

The Lionsguard turned downcast. Their lady did not trust in them as she had him.

"Agrias… everyone, I'm sorry," Ovelia apologized to her knights.

"You need not say such a thing, Your Highness," Agrias responded. But there was bitterness at the betrayal in her words. "We are your knights regardless. We depart." They dragged the medical staff away with them, leaving Ovelia and Ramza alone once more.

"They are cross with me," Ovelia admitted. "I should not have hidden this from them."

Gods, there was no good answer to that. "They… will understand."

"I hope so…"

They'd not even the interlude to properly explain themselves. Or make their announcement.

Gods, may this all work out.

* * *

 **AN: I don't even have an excuse for this one's extreme break.**

 **Thanks everyone sticking around.**


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